


Tales From The Top

by babyrubysoho



Series: Bombshell [2]
Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Angst with a Happy Ending, Burlesque, Chicago (City), Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, GTOP, Gen, Great Depression, Jazz Age, Jealousy, K-pop References, Light BDSM, M/M, Period Typical Bigotry, Roaring Twenties, Romance, Sassy Kwon Jiyong | G-Dragon, Slash, Strip Tease, TOPnyong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-04-12 12:05:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 201,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19131685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyrubysoho/pseuds/babyrubysoho
Summary: Seunghyun in love was a romantic and an idealist. Jiyong found that sweet and incredibly refreshing after his long years of professional sex. But was itpractical?He looked forward to them finding out – together.*Jiyong and Seunghyun escape Chicago and embark on a new showbiz career in the years leading up to a time of intense upheaval in U.S. history: the arrest of Al Capone, the Wall Street Crash, the beginning of the Great Depression, and the end of the American circus’s Gilded Age.*Part 2 of the 'Bombshell' series.With illustrations :)





	1. Fugitive From A Harem

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are again in the Roaring Twenties! This fic is a sequel to my previous one, _Second City Bombshell_ , so I highly recommend reading that one first or this is going to get pretty confusing ^^;.
> 
> We're picking up right where we left off: winter in a strange small town in Florida. As usual there'll be some historical characters peppered in, but of course this is all about the boys and their trials and tribulations, this time from Jiyong's point of view. Enjoy! :)

 

Jiyong paused at the peak of his routine for the hushed gasps of his audience, then unhooked his leg and let the long strip of silk tumble him down from the ceiling in a whirl of speed and color. The drop never failed to put his heart in his mouth, and especially today; still, the drumrolls and the gasps of the watchers fed him, and as he released his grip from his final pose and dropped through the void toward his target he felt a rush of pure, uncomplicated delight. He focused, twisted just the right amount, and half a second later landed on his inches-wide perch fifteen feet above the stage. Straightening up on tiptoe he flung his arms skyward in the usual style-and-smile, and there was the applause, the admiration, the _attention_. Jiyong grinned and for an instant forgot everything else. He cast his smile across the Auditorium, so familiar from a hundred trips to the Opera; it was the usual sea of blurred faces, only those in the nearest box seats distinguishable. He swept his gaze along them happily. Then he froze, eyes widening at the sight of –

His muscles would no longer obey him. His footing faltered on the tiny platform and he felt his balance go, heard a deep and familiar voice yell out from somewhere beneath him; and all Jiyong knew as he fell was a vivid conviction that they should never, ever have come back to Chicago. The thought slammed out of his head as he hit the ground; for a moment he saw ropes and lights swimming above him. Then everything went black.

For an indefinable amount of time there was…nothing. Jiyong floated there, not panicked, not anything. He was just unsure – of where he was, even _who_ he was.

“Go back,” came Seunghyun’s chiding voice in the darkness. Jiyong blinked, or thought he did. Seunghyun sounded like he was scolding one of his students. “How can you know where you are if you don’t understand how you got here?”

Jiyong nodded at that, and the void began spinning. He saw images flicker out of the blackness like a motion picture: last night’s performance, Seunghyun drunk on moonshine, their first bath together after the endless dust plains of that summer. For a moment he glimpsed his father, then an empty chair that made somehow his chest ache. The visions slipped past faster and faster and he clutched at them but could not retain them. He started to feel frightened, of how far he’d go, of what would happen if he lost these memories and couldn’t come back. He grasped at them harder – here was Mr. Insull, his lined face vivid for a second before the picture dropped out of sight. Jiyong made a small sound of dismay. He stretched with all his might; and there before him was Seunghyun, swinging his heels in the back of the bread van in the Florida sunshine. Jiyong gripped the memory, refusing to let go. Seunghyun smiled at him. Jiyong smiled back – and opened his eyes.

 

* * *

 

“Are you nervous?” asked Jiyong, scraping butter over a hunk of bread and passing it up to Seunghyun. The older man smiled again, warm and confident in a way Jiyong hadn’t seen since he’d visited him at his laboratory on their first real date. It felt like a lifetime ago now – everything did since they’d arrived in the circus camp last night.

“No,” said Seunghyun with his mouth full. “I’ll put on a good show, you’ll see.” He patted the box of carefully piled fireworks he’d rigged up that morning, and Jiyong took a brief moment to mentally congratulate himself on making his Tabi steal all those chemicals before they’d fled Chicago.

“I was scared as hell,” he admitted. It felt odd to say so, he was rarely frightened of anything; but this chance meant so much to him. It’d been his childhood dream, and now he felt like a jittery kid all over again. For Seunghyun the circus held no such associations.

“You didn’t look it,” Seunghyun told him, now with a satirical cant to his smile; Jiyong knew exactly what he was referring to. He reclined on his elbows in the crushed grass and replayed the scene of the previous day’s interview, when they’d made their first contact with this new world:

 

“Looking for a place?” Zack Terrell leaned back on his throne – no exaggeration, even if it was all gold paint and paste and looking as debauched as the man himself; Jiyong had seen a similar seat decaying under canvas by a trailer. “You boys are way too eager: show season doesn’t start ‘til April.”

“Yessir. But we _really_ wanna join!” stated Jiyong with a bright if anxious smile. “We’ve come hundreds of miles, we’re in for the long haul.” Seunghyun was keeping quiet and eyeing the rotund man in the expensive wrinkled shirtsleeves with reserve.

“Come back in a month,” suggested Terrell, edging round on the prop throne to avoid getting the setting sun in his eyes. His large face looked faintly green around the gills, which Jiyong instantly pinned as the leftovers of a mammoth hangover: the Sells-Floto Circus manager[1] didn’t spend much of his winter here in rural Gibsonton with his employees, he’d heard, but over in Tampa. New Year in the ‘wettest’ city in Florida? thought Jiyong – no wonder he didn’t seem thrilled to see them, he’d still be full of Cuban booze. But they couldn’t wait a _month_ to secure their future!

“We’ll do whatev-” Jiyong began, leaning forward eagerly on the upturned crate he’d been waved to. But Terrell just winced and raised a hand to silence him; it was gleaming with rings, real gold, Jiyong could always tell. He reached down to a bowl sitting in the grass in front of his tent and withdrew a wet cloth, then dabbed at his cheeks before spreading it across his forehead with a groan. “…Sorry,” murmured Jiyong, dropping his voice to a sweet, soft tone that’d soothe the man’s big ears – it had worked wonders on his similarly suffering clients. “I could run get you a Coke from the store, soda sometimes helps.” Terrell opened one eye and swiveled it toward him.

“Pretty obliging, aren’t you.”

“Well, I’m trying for a job.” Jiyong gave him another winning smile. Their prospective employer squinted at him, then at Seunghyun sitting mum behind him. The sun dropped a little further, a cool breeze drifting off the river with that delicious alien Southern scent, and Terrell somewhat came back to life. He bit the tip off a fat-cat cigar and lit it – also Cuban, Jiyong could smell it, and expensive.

“You’ve worked for a circus outfit before?” he said, before Jiyong could make good on his offer of a hangover cure. The smaller man pursed his lips.

“No, Sir. But I’ve been in…entertainment since I was a kid.” At his back he could sense Seunghyun disapproving. The manager shrugged gingerly.

“You’re both too small for roustabouts. Can put you on ticket sales, maybe concessions depending on how well you can hawk junk food.” Jiyong took a careful breath.

“…I’d like to perform,” he said with an engaging smile. He’d take menial jobs if he had to, they couldn’t afford to mess this gig up; but he was a good judge of older men, and he wasn’t afraid to nudge this one a bit to get what he wanted: pushing and pampering, it hardly ever failed. Terrell puffed on his cigar and narrowed his little eyes, looking at them properly for the first time; in that evaluative gaze Jiyong saw that beneath the jowls and the pimp-getting-home-from-Tijuana headache was a savvy businessman.

“Doing what?”

“Contortion, I thought.” Jiyong casually did a couple of his double-jointed moves – the manager’s face didn’t change. He’d probably seen that a thousand times.

“Not bad,” said Terrell, surprising him. “But you got an act?”

“Not yet.”

“Then no. Work on it during the season – or before if you want. Either way you won’t get paid for it.” Seunghyun was still watching them quietly; when Jiyong gave him a glance he was looking ambivalent at the smaller man’s brashness. Jiyong nodded at Terrell, but wasn’t done.

“Okay. Then if not the Big Top, how about the sideshow?” Terrell pointedly looked him up and down, then shut his peepers as if he failed to see anything extraordinary.

“Kid, seeing a Chinese might make some country bumpkins sit up and blink, but you’re too plain _and_ too pretty for _my_ freakshow.” Jiyong could _feel_ the grumpiness radiating off Seunghyun at that remark, but ignored him. Still smiling pertly at Terrell, he rolled up his sleeves.

“I got better qualifications.” Terrell peeked, raised his eyebrows at the tattoos, and sat up a bit.

“A picture show? Hmm. We don’t have one right now, the last girl got seduced over to The Big One – that’s Barnum and Bailey, y’know – for their Greatest Show On Earth. An Asian boy, that’s new, we could come up with a good spiel for that.” Jiyong’s heart rose. “But how far does that ink go?”

“Oh,” said Jiyong, spotting the gleam in the manager’s avaricious eye and suddenly feeling light as cotton candy. “All the way!” And he stood up, peeled his shirt over his head, and stepped right out of his pants. A quick shimmy and he was standing cool and naked in the final glow of the sunset. Behind him Seunghyun made a low, mortified noise, but he didn’t care – this was no time to be a bluenose!

“Turn around,” suggested Terrell; he sounded thoughtful. Jiyong did a slow rotation, displaying his inked flesh in public for the first time since he’d had it done and vaguely enjoying it. “…Yes,” he heard the large man say. “Yes, I think you’ve got something there. They’re quite…unusual.” Jiyong completed his turn and beamed at him. Terrell was now wearing an expression that said he liked what he saw and wasn’t sure he oughta. “You’ll still need an act,” Terrell informed him with a cough and a look that said he saw cash where Seunghyun saw nothing but beauty. “You can’t just sit there.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Jiyong assured him. There was a pause. Then the manager stretched out a hand and Jiyong shook it, practically vibrating with nerves but pleased as punch. He _knew_ this was gunna work!

He tugged his clothes on again and hoofed it back to the store to fetch the promised Coke while Seunghyun got his own grilling. It went a lot smoother, he gathered: his Tabi was so talented, what showman wouldn’t want him? Terrell certainly seemed piqued by the notion of explosions and fireworks, once Seunghyun had assured him he could fashion a performance that wouldn’t set the whole Big Top ablaze; and his grad student credentials sounded impressive as ever.

“Show us…hmm, tomorrow night,” Terrell ordered, with a weather eye on the darkening sky – a Florida rain was rapidly coming on. “And if you can wow this crowd, you’re in.” He gestured to the tents and trailers surrounding them, and the distant figures eavesdropping. “Both of you.” Seunghyun nodded tightly; Jiyong gave Terrell the smile full-force, and was gratified when the man’s ears turned red.

“Christ,” said Terrell, and pitched his cigar stub. “…Welcome to the Circus.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong blinked himself into awareness the day after the firework demonstration and yawned. The first thing he saw was the sunlight edging through the back door of their van – God, he was finding it hard to stop being nocturnal. The second thing he noticed after he was done blinking was Seunghyun, who was leaning up on one elbow and gazing down at him in the dimness with the expression of gentle amazement he often wore when he thought Jiyong wasn’t looking.

“…You watching me sleep?” said Jiyong groggily. Seunghyun grinned at him. “Creepy,” he told the older man. Seunghyun ran a finger along his fine jaw, the faint roughness reminding Jiyong he oughta shave before he tried to go out and get to know people. Then Seunghyun bent and kissed him, and he forgot all about it. It’d been years since Jiyong had slept in one man’s arms all night and woken up to the same face each morning; not since the first months with Mr. Insull, and this was wildly different from that bewildering time. With Seunghyun he didn’t feel anxious that he had to look his best, which was just as well ‘cos that was impossible while living in the back of a van. Seunghyun would lie there admiring him ‘til his gaze heated the smaller man all over, and then they would…

“I’m hungry,” rumbled Seunghyun in that spectacular voice of his, and tugged aside the blankets to kiss his way down Jiyong’s chest. And then they’d do _this_.

“What else we gunna do today?” inquired Jiyong after Seunghyun had more than satisfied him and was now obligingly making toast on the oil heater. Jiyong was used to spending most of his waking hours flirting and fucking, and lately driving; he wasn’t yet sure what normal people did. Before Seunghyun could reply there was a rap on the door.

“Hey, College Man!” came a gruff voice. Seunghyun looked uneasy, but Jiyong could play the social butterfly at any time of day so he slung a blanket round his waist and pushed open the door. When he was done squinting in the light he saw a dwarf and what looked like a hobo standing in front of him.

“Oh, Tattoos,” said the small man; he looked as groggy as Jiyong felt, and certainly hadn’t bothered shaving for days.

“Jiyong,” said Jiyong.

“Yeah? Whatever you like,” replied the dwarf, who on closer inspection seemed to be dealing with a hangover of his own. The hobo-but-possibly-a-clown took over.

“Just wanted to say we thought that firework act was okay.” Jiyong smiled proudly on behalf of Seunghyun – he was frantically flapping a slice of burnt toast, and sucked at accepting compliments in any case. “You boys wanna come share our fire tonight, feel free; we gotta get to know the new hires.”

“Thanks!” Jiyong waited for them to finish checking out his tattoos and go on their way. The maybe-clown nodded at him and ambled off in the direction of the village.

“Bring booze!” ordered the dwarf, and slouched away after him.

“Well,” said Jiyong once they’d gone, “guess that sorts out meeting the neighbors.” Seunghyun finally passed him the toast and a mug of black coffee; it was kinda awful but Jiyong didn’t care because they were here, they’d passed their auditions and they were _in_!

“We’re gonna have to go to Tampa,” Seunghyun told him, taking a seat beside him and pinching the mug. “I need more firework supplies if I’m going to figure out how to make a light-show inside a tent. And I guess we should find some liquor.” Jiyong nodded. Seunghyun pointed to his carefully buttoned shirt pocket. “But first we’ve got to do something about that diamond.”

 

“Mr. Terrell?”

“Hm? Oh, it’s you.” Terrell beckoned him into the tent and brandished a newspaper at him. “Take a look.” Jiyong saw a dramatic illustration of cowboys and bison beneath the heading: ‘ _Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Joins Sells-Floto Again!_ ’ “The publicity train’s right on schedule,” said the manager comfortably.

“We have a Wild West show too?!” exclaimed Jiyong, excited as a little boy because he’d never seen one in person.

“Sure, we nabbed them years ago; they use the Big Top after our finale. But they don’t mix socially with the Cirkies, so contain your enthusiasm,” said Terrell drily. “Now, what did you want?”

“Oh.” Jiyong remembered why he’d come in. “I was wondering if you know any places that buy and sell jewels in Tampa. It’s our first time down here so I dunno who to trust.”

“Of course,” said Terrell, as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world for the owner of one rickety van to ask. “There’s Berman behind Flagler Street, and if he’s closed try Parker in Ybor City. They’re the two everyone uses.”

“Everyone, Sir?” The manager’s ample stomach quivered as he laughed.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, boy; I assumed you knew since you were asking, but most circus folk don’t trust banks. Any pay they don’t drink away they keep with them, so it’s got to be more portable than cash: Cirkies carries their wealth in _diamonds_.”[2] Jiyong felt himself grin – how extremely convenient! That one ice chip from McGurn’s stolen haul was the only real capital they had left; if they didn’t wanna starve they needed a fence who’d take it with no questions. “So of course there’s a healthy trade goes on,” continued Terrell. “Ask anyone in camp, they can tell you the best small-scale merchants in every city in America.”

“Wow, thanks! And thanks for your time.” Jiyong gave the big man a bob of his head and turned to leave.

“Keep them on you if you can!” added Terrell. “Have your man wear them round his neck if you’re going to be taking your clothes off constantly. Better yet, open a bank account. Not that you will,” he bet under his breath. “You people never do.” He was sure right about that, thought Jiyong as he exited the tent. He wasn’t about to put his real name to an official document – he wouldn’t make himself traceable for anything, not when there were so many people in Chicago who’d _love_ to get their hands on him if they knew where he was. Still, at least now they could afford to eat ‘til the season started. He hurried off to tell Seunghyun.

 

* * *

 

In Tampa they got themselves some cash, supplies, rum, a fake passport for Jiyong – lots of circuses worked up to Canada, he’d heard, and it’d been amazingly easy to find a Cuban who’d make one for him – with a smaller diamond left over. Later Seunghyun stored his chemical gear safely in back of the village store after Jiyong had charmed the owner by letting her tell his fortune.

“I normally tell the rubes they’ll meet someone tall, dark and handsome,” she informed him, and looked up from examining his palm to where Seunghyun was browsing the aisles. “But I guess that’d be sorta redundant for _you_ , sugar.” Jiyong nodded smugly. Seunghyun was simply lovely to look at; he appreciated it all the more now they’d left the House, in which everything had been a feast for the eye. Out here in Gibtown his Tabi shone like a movie star. Jiyong had been with plenty of beautiful women at his clients’ behest, but it was still so novel to embrace a handsome man! And novel to have competition for him.

Because as it turned out, Gibtown and its temporary tent village wasn’t only full of misfits like the little people and the clowns: it also contained women, and every one of them had spent at least ten minutes ogling Seunghyun since they’d arrived. Jiyong was unused to this: he understood it, sure, ‘cos who wouldn’t? But back at the House Tabi had been a poor prospect compared with their rich tricks, and other than Lin and Bethany Jiyong couldn’t think of anyone who’d given him a second thought. Here things were different: almost everyone had to do with a circus or carnival or vaudeville show, and the race prejudice that’d keep most women from approaching Seunghyun was absent – the village was a rainbow of people. Plus _nobody_ seemed to have a lot of scratch, so the fact that Seunghyun lived in a van didn’t put the girls off any. During their first days in camp Jiyong received his share of flirtation from the ladies too, but it was nothing compared with his lover. He was both tickled and pleased at how little Seunghyun liked it all.

“That cutie with the rear end who tends the Lipizzaners wants ya to take her for a _soda_ ,” one of the miscellaneous guys told Seunghyun as they were drinking around the fire after supper. He gave the handsome man an exaggerated wink-and-nudge, a gesture so expressively filthy Jiyong pegged him as a clown at once. It’d been a week since they’d arrived and Jiyong knew the other circus folk – _Cirkies_ – thought they were total mugs. Still, they were kind enough to keep company with the two of them. “Her momma’s been makin’ eyes at you too! And that’s the fourth invitation you’ve had since Monday.”

“I keep _telling_ them I’m not interested,” said Seunghyun defensively. One of the little people – who hadn’t bothered to introduce himself yet but the one Jiyong talked to the most, tow-colored hair and five o’clock shadow – snorted.

“We know it, kid: we seen that tin heap of yours a-rockin’!” Immediately Seunghyun turned red. Jiyong would never stop finding that cute: the ability to blush after a year working in a whorehouse was one of Seunghyun’s many charms. He smirked happily and linked arms with the older man, who went even redder but broke into a smile of his own. Jiyong knew Seunghyun would have found it unthinkable to announce the nature of their connection back in Chicago – in public, at least. He hoped having the chance to do so now would endear him a bit to circus life.

“I can make it more obvious,” he offered, tipping his small interlocutor a wink. “If you think the girls haven’t got the message.” He felt Seunghyun tense up anxiously at the idea of any more exhibitionist displays, but the dwarf only grinned before taking another swig from his flask.

“Oh, they got the message. Doesn’t mean they’ll stop.” Seunghyun looked crestfallen. “But you lovebirds might as well make the most of your freedom: come spring you’re both gonna be starvin’ for a lay.”

“What d’you mean?” demanded Seunghyun. Jiyong observed the set of his eyebrows and knew he was building up a temper; he squeezed the bigger man’s arm tight, and once again felt his own power as Seunghyun settled. The dwarf looked unfazed.

“Mid-March we’ll be headin’ up to join the rest of ‘em.”

“Huh?” The little man looked at them, then at his buddies; they all burst out laughing.

“You kids really are the First of May!” He gestured at the tent village around them. “Y’all think this is _it_?” Seunghyun nodded hesitantly and they sniggered again. “Someone gave you duff information. This ain’t the Circus, boys; this is _nothing_.” Jiyong opened his mouth but evidently didn’t need to ask. “We’re not Sells-Floto,” continued the dwarf. “We’re just the tail end of it, the performers who got personal ties here around Tampa. Sells- _Floto_ winters in Peru.” Seunghyun’s eyes widened.

“Peru Indiana,” clarified one of the other shapes around the fire – Jiyong thought he was also a clown, though it was hard to tell without the costume. “And before April the gaffer’s gonna ship us out there and we’ll all start the season rollin’ together: a thousand guys, gals, and uncategorized.” He gave Jiyong’s fine features a quick scan, then grinned. “So ya better get your pleasures now, little fairy.” Jiyong took a breath, felt Seunghyun stiffen – but the clown’s tone was in no way malicious.

“What’s to stop me getting my fill during the season?” the younger man ventured, with a coquettish toss of his head that he knew very well was charming. The circus veterans chuckled.

“The train,” said the dwarf. “You’ll see. It’s no respecter of sweethearts.”

“Train?”

“Ya seriously don’t know?” The clown lit a roll-up and grinned, displaying gold teeth. “Fuckin’ green, the pair of you.” Jiyong and Seunghyun shook their heads. “Sells-Floto’s a _railroad_ circus,” he explained at last. “And the train will rule your life.”

 

* * *

 

On March 25 Terrell rounded up his Florida contingent and loaded them onto trucks headed for the station. Jiyong reckoned there were near a hundred people all told, plus gear, plus assorted animals. How many more would there be at their destination?! he wondered. They’d been told to pack light: they’d left the bread van in a lean-to behind the Gibtown store, and now everything they’d need other than Seunghyun’s firework supplies was on their backs. He hadn’t traveled this spartan since he’d run away from home at thirteen.

The station was big and hot and noisy and as confusing to the adult Jiyong as it’d been to his teenage self; and without Seunghyun and his new dwarf acquaintance – whose unlikely name turned out to be Timtam – he’d have gotten lost and ended up helpless on a platform bench again.

“Hop on,” directed Timtam, leaping the large distance between the platform edge and the train.

“This is a freight train,” said Seunghyun, staring at it blankly.

“Course. Ya think Terrell’s gonna splash out on a passenger service for the likes of us? We’re roughin’ it to Indiana, boys, and you better get used to _that_.” Jiyong peered down the line to where the manager was smoking and ordering the station workers about. In went the Cirkies, the tents, the horses and weirder creatures. He shrugged, slung his bag into the bare, seatless interior of the car, and jumped in after it. Seunghyun looked disapproving that his lover would have to travel in such conditions, but gave up and followed. Jiyong poked his head back out amid clouds of steam: the engine was starting. A deafening whistle sounded and the doors began to slam closed; up ahead a signal light turned green. Terrell nodded from the platform, saw Jiyong looking, and gave him a short wave before turning and walking off.

“Where’s the boss going?” inquired Jiyong as one of the clowns – Edgar of the gold teeth, or possibly one of his brothers, they all looked the same – nudged him aside to slide their heavy door shut and plunge them into the half-dark.

“ _He’s_ goin’ first class. We’ll catch up with him in Peru.”

“Oh.” So the Circus _did_ have a pecking order, thought Jiyong, sitting down beside Seunghyun and trying to make himself comfortable on a bolt of canvas. He wondered how it worked, and how it would affect their everyday life once they finally joined up with Sells-Floto.

 

They found out soon after they arrived – not that it’d been a quick journey. By the time the freight train had changed lines and engines several times as they passed through the different States Jiyong was aching and bored and just about ready to kill anyone who wasn’t Seunghyun; he hoped the real Sells-Floto train had a few more creature comforts than this. The train slid right past Peru Station and on through the town. Jiyong, standing on tiptoe to peer out of the slit that passed for a window, wondered where the hell it was taking them. But a few minutes later the locomotive slowed in a hiss and grind of metal, and finally came to a stop.

“Well, here we go again,” said Timtam, sounding almost happy and at the same time grouchy as ever. “We’re fuckin’ late, we prob’ly missed the big rehearsal.” Someone shoved the door open and bright, chilly light hit them. Jiyong took Seunghyun’s hand to pull him up; they retrieved their bags and stepped into the doorway, and Jiyong couldn’t help but gasp at what he saw. There were _thousands_ of people outside: tents and trucks and herds of animals stretching as far as he could see. “ _That’s_ Sells-Floto,” Timtam told them. “C’mon, you’re holdin’ up the line!” Jiyong jumped down, still gawping at the chaotic fantasy before him, and absently helped the dwarf out of the train. Another little person emerged from the sea of moving bodies and greeted Timtam and his small colleagues, and off they all went to do whatever it was that they did.

“…What do _we_ do?” asked Seunghyun in his ear; he looked even more stunned than Jiyong. “Where should we go?” The younger man shook his head; it was _cold_ here compared with the balmy Florida climate, and he felt very small and stupid. One of the clowns disembarked behind them and nudged them out of the way before getting a glimpse of their bewildered faces and taking pity on them.

“See that?” said the clown, pointing down the train tracks to an endless set of cars that wound off into the distance.[3] “That’s our home for the next eight months.” Jiyong just stood there with his mouth open; he could hear music, and elephants in the distance calling to each other. “Ya want me to show you, I guess.” The clown, who was either Edgar or one of his siblings, sighed gruffly and tramped off through the mud. “C’mon!” he ordered, and the two newcomers followed.

The older man walked them right down the line, reeling off the number and contents of each important car: the Sixteen was the agent’s office, the Seventeen where they’d pick up their pay. Terrell was at the back in car Sixty-something, but he’d be around now directing the loading. Jiyong kept a tight hold on Seunghyun’s hand as they wove through the crowd; he squeaked as a passing horse aimed a kick at him.

“Watch yourself,” suggested the clown, “some of ‘em can be right mean bastards.”

“Does he mean the horses or the humans?” wondered Seunghyun aloud. Jiyong just gave him a nervous glance and hurried to keep up. “Hey,” called Seunghyun, “what should I do with all my firework gear?” He’d left it back on the other train, it was heavy.

“What is it?”

“Gunpowder and stuff.”

“Jesus, ya might’ve said.” Their guide marched them back to where they’d come from and found two of the big manual laborers – roustabouts – unloading the supplies. Seunghyun grabbed his boxes protectively and passed them to the clown and Jiyong, goddammit, they _were_ heavy! He lugged the most delicate supplies himself to the car the roustabouts had suggested.

“Fireworks?” said the car loader with suspicion. Seunghyun nodded up at him. “Christ, what next?” But to Jiyong’s relief he took the boxes. The younger man let Seunghyun and the other guy get on with it and returned to staring in amazement at the enormity of the world he’d signed up for. He’d spent the last few years of his life more or less isolated, in grand rooms that contained more space than people; even his nights out to the drag balls had been nothing as crazy as this. He _was_ excited, almost breathless with it – but he couldn’t deny he was kinda overwhelmed too.

Seunghyun was still giving the car loader a set of paranoid instructions about what chemicals _must not_ be put next to others for fear of blowing up the whole outfit.

“Seriously,” he warned the guy once he’d finished, “I hope no-one tries smoking in there.” He peered anxiously up at the baggage car, like the firework supplies were his kids. But at a tap on the shoulder from maybe-Edgar, who’d been jawing with another train worker, he and Jiyong left the supervisor to his growing alarm and resumed following the clown along the train in the direction of the engine.

“Lead-stock car, cat car, heavy horse car, ring horse car,” the veteran reeled off as they went down the line. “Menagerie men in here, roustabouts and butchers up by the engine, star acts at the rear near the executive cars – it’s quieter back there.”

“People don’t just bunk with their friends?” asked Jiyong, his eyebrows drawing down slightly.

“Yeah, they do, that’s what I just said.”

“What about if a bareback rider’s best friends with a cook?”

“That ain’t very likely,” almost-certainly-Edgar explained. “Not officially, anyways. That’s the rules.”

“…Oh,” said Seunghyun, his hand in the small of Jiyong’s back to shield him from the bustle of people.

“What?” Jiyong looked up at him; he was frowning.

“I just got the hierarchy. I knew there had to be one but I couldn’t quite pin it down.”

“Guess it’s not obvious to you First of Mays,” Edgar put in. Jiyong took Seunghyun’s sleeve.

“What…what was it? A _hierarchy_?” Seunghyun nodded, and exhaled through his nose as if he’d been a chump to imagine everyone might get treated the same here.

“It’s not race segregation, and it’s not a class system – it’s a _caste_ system.”

“What’s that?” inquired Jiyong. Seunghyun cast around for an explanation simple enough for the younger man to absorb.

“Partly to do with your job, partly your family. We already figured out that if you’re a trouper who’s been working here years you get some respect – even more if you were born into the circus life. And new arrivals – that’s us – get none. But everyone seems to _associate_ based on their social role.”

“Right,” said probably-Edgar, marching them on. “Kinkers with kinkers, and that’s split into Big Top and sideshow performers. And technical people with other techs, and menagerie men with their beasts, and roustabouts with no-one ‘cos they’re too tired or too drunk. Course, it gets a bit blurred between the Big Top performers and their personal techs,” he went on. “But that’s gonna be over your heads. The only thing _everyone_ shares is the food: manager to messenger boy, we all get the same. Other than that…it’s complicated.”

“What about clowns?” Jiyong asked.

“Clowns can go anywhere!” Edgar gave him a smirk. “But for everyone else, better not to fraternize.” He stopped beside a long train car full of mildly squabbling men in workshirts and overalls. “Which is why you,” he said, gesturing to Seunghyun, “are bunkin’ in here. No-one knows exactly what you are, so Harrell the car manager’s put you in with the Big Top riggers.”

“ _Here_?” exclaimed Seunghyun, his deep voice horrified. He gave Jiyong a wild look. “By myself?!”

“There’s fifty other guys in with you, it ain’t solitary confinement.”

“We thought we could find a corner together!” Jiyong protested, recognizing his lover’s expression of anxiety. How were they supposed to be intimate if they were bunked in separate dorms like schoolboys?! Edgar spat and shrugged, not unsympathetically.

“We told ya the train don’t respect sweethearts. Can’t have a Big Topper and a sideshow act fuckin’ unless they’re legally hitched, not durin’ the season – that’s a rule. And you boys don’t have enough clout around here to break it.”

“Tabi…” said Jiyong, grabbing his hand tight.

“It’s okay,” said Seunghyun in a low voice. He squeezed Jiyong’s fingers and leaned close to murmur in his ear. “We’ll find a way round it! Meet me at dinner tonight.” Jiyong nodded – their Chicago relationship had been based entirely on secret rendezvous, they could handle it a bit longer; but he didn’t like it. Seunghyun let go his hand, hoisted his bag, and with a look of apprehension stepped aboard the car.

“Okay,” announced Edgar, “sorted! C’mon.” Without pausing he led Jiyong down several cars, back away from the engine, and stuck his head through one of the doors. “Timtam!” he bawled.

“I’m right here,” growled the dwarf, emerging from underneath the car. Jiyong sniffed: he smelled of booze again.

“This one’s all yours.”

“What’m I meant to do with him?”

“Bunk him somewhere. I gotta go claim my own or the boys won’t be able to hold it for me. I don’t fancy a fight before we even get rollin’.” He clapped Jiyong on the back and jogged away through the swirl of workers.

“All right then,” grumbled Timtam with a sigh. “Let’s go find the car manager.”

“Say,” tried Jiyong as they wandered down the train, “is Timtam your real name?” If he was gunna be apart from Seunghyun for a while he’d better try and make some real friends; other than Tabi he hadn’t had any for years and he’d almost forgotten how you went about it. The little man gave him a look. “It’s just unusual, that’s all,” said Jiyong sweetly.

“Is Jiyong _yours_?”

“Yes?”

“Well that’s plenty unusual, ain’t it? Don’t ask stupid questions.” After a minute’s chastened silence the dwarf relented and glanced up at him. “Had a twin brother,” said the smaller man. “He was Tam, I was Tim – our folks knew from birth we’d be show people or starve, so we got catchy monikers. He died a couple years back and I had nothin’ of him but his name. I’m not gonna lose that too.”

“I’m sorry,” Jiyong told him quietly.

“What for? _You_ didn’t give him the Spanish ‘flu.”

“That’s awful.” Jiyong missed his own sisters bad enough, and they were alive and well. No wonder Timtam drank.

“Yeah, well, it’s-” Timtam paused and craned his neck. “There’s the gaffer: we can ask _him_ what to do with you.”

Terrell was surveying the controlled chaos of the train loading and firing off instructions in between puffs at his cigar. He gave the two of them a blank look as they squeezed their way past a gang of canvasmen and approached him.

“Where do we put the new kid?” said Timtam immediately. Terrell peered at Jiyong for a second before his internal filing system threw up a card.

“The picture show, right? You boys are goddamn late.” As if that was their fault! thought Jiyong. Terrell frowned down at Timtam. “He’s an oddity, so obviously he goes in the sideshow car with _you_. Why’re you asking me?”

“…What, with the guys?” The smaller man sounded shocked. Jiyong and the manager both stared at him expectantly.

“Where else?” inquired Terrell.

“Ya can’t put him in the men’s car!” said Timtam. “Look at him! He’s a fairy, it’ll cause havoc – they’re red-blooded even if they _are_ freaks.” Jiyong gave him a glare, because those terms seemed to get bandied about even more among circus folk than with the regular city jerks. “Don’t get sore,” said the dwarf in a friendlier tone. “It’s just a word: there’s girls in the Circus, and run-of-the-mill men, and dwarves, and giants, and fairies. Don’t mean you’re not as good as any of us.”

“Huh.”

“You bein’ so tight with the College Man, and the way ya look…”

“ _Fine_ ,” interrupted Terrell, who’d been yelling at someone else in the meantime, “he can go in the female oddities’ car.”

“I’ve fucked women as well, you know!” Jiyong informed them, not sure whether to be tickled or completely offended. Timtam looked dubious.

“Well he obviously doesn’t merit his own space and there’s no room in with the animals right now,” Terrell snapped at the dwarf. “So he’s bunking with you lot, and you’d better shuffle up and make the best of it.”

“But…aw, _fine_ ,” said Timtam, evidently resigned.

“And you keep an eye on him!” The manager gave Jiyong a look, and the younger man just bet he was recalling the sight of his naked body that first evening. He wasn’t really sure what Terrell thought of him, but on balance he appreciated being assigned someone to show him the ropes. Timtam didn’t look so thrilled.

“…Yes, Boss,” he said. Terrell was already walking away. The little man looked up at Jiyong and sighed again. Then they both shrugged, and went back to the sideshow car. What else could they do? Jiyong shouldered his bag, gave Timtam a leg-up at an imperious prod from the dwarf, and finally boarded the train.

 

* * *

 

Before they were done loading the cookhouse tent ran up a flag and half the population streamed off the train towards it.

“No-one misses dinner,” said Timtam, fishing Jiyong out from a tiny berth down by the floor of the car where he’d been mournfully recalling his two bedrooms back at the House. “Hurry up.” They joined the line of hungry workers; at least it’d be nice not to have to cook again ‘til winter, thought Jiyong. He spotted Seunghyun’s handsome form way ahead of them talking to a bald man in overalls. He looked awkward.

“Tabi!!” yelled Jiyong over the din, standing on tiptoe and waving. Eventually Seunghyun noticed, got outta line and trotted over to them gratefully. “How’s yours?”

“I dunno,” said Seunghyun. “They were all in and out working or asleep or arguing; but I think they’re in charge of the gear for the Big Top performers. What about you?”

“Okay,” Jiyong hedged. Timtam snorted. They reached the front of the line and received their plates: chops, mashed potato and greens, lots of it. Jiyong perked up; it was better than toast, anyway.

“What’cha doin’?” Timtam poked Seunghyun in the thigh as he followed them toward a table. Seunghyun looked confused. “Ya can’t sit here!” The dwarf gestured at the assortment of ‘oddities’ at the table. “This is the sideshow area – riggers and such go over _there_.”

“I can’t even eat with him?!” protested Jiyong, backing away to stand beside Seunghyun.

“You can try,” said Timtam. “But it ain’t gonna be a comfortable experience.” He smiled a bit under his stubble. “Look, I know this has gotta be a shock to you lovebirds seein’ as ya had it so good down in Florida. But it’s best ya toe the line, at least for a spell.”

“But-”

“Tell you what: you be good boys tonight and ya can maybe slip into one of the baggage cars when we finally start rollin’ tomorrow. That’ll give ya a bit of time, and it’ll hopefully keep the guys in our car from jumpin’ your bones before I can warn ‘em off.” Jiyong nodded slowly.

“If that’s the best we can do,” said Seunghyun sadly, looking so sweet and lonely Jiyong wanted to grab him and kiss him better right there. “…I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Meet me at the canvas car before we start moving,” Jiyong told him. He watched his poor Tabi walk away with his dinner. When Timtam coughed he turned, and with butterflies in his stomach sat down to meet the rest of his fellow performers.

 

After dinner they sat swinging their legs in the doorway of their car and smoking. Jiyong had shared out the cigarettes he’d bought in bulk back in Tampa, and the male sideshow acts had more or less quit complaining about having to make space for him. None of ‘em seemed to be the least bit inclined to make a pass at him; Timtam was just awfully paranoid.

“Route sheet’s printed,” called a croaky voice as someone tramped out of the shadows from the direction of the tents – it was Ed, a ‘Human Ostrich’, so called ‘cos his act involved eating lightbulbs and God knew what else. Timtam had taken Jiyong to see him rehearsing right after dinner and he never wanted to see it again on a full stomach; but you couldn’t mistake that voice. Ed emerged, looking quite nondescript for someone who could do something so bizarre, and tossed one of a handful of bills at Timtam. “I heard the agents had a fight ‘cos the Sparks Circus tried to book Jersey City same day as us; but naturally we whupped ‘em, so it’s finalized at last. Same as last year, pretty much.”

“Thanks,” said Timtam, catching it as the man wandered off. He squinted at the small-print list, then handed it to Jiyong. “Here. See what you’ve let yourself in for.”

Jiyong twisted round to find some light. On the front fold was an elaborate colored set of portraits and the legend: _Sells Floto Circus and Buffalo Bill’s Wild West_. He grinned; he was still so excited to see the famous show. He’d not glimpsed hide or hair of a cowboy so far, but they probably weren’t too keen on spending more time than they could help with Cirkies like him so maybe they’d arrive when they got to the first location. He unfolded the sheet: twenty-nine weeks of traveling! And excitement, and many secret hours with Seunghyun if he had anything to do with it. Then he looked closer and saw the first date on the list. He dropped the sheet.

“ _Chicago_?” he blurted out. Timtam wrinkled his nose in surprise at the horror in his tone, but grabbed the list as it fluttered down and handed it to the man sitting behind them.

“Sure, Sells-Floto opens every year in Chicago. Two weeks at least, in the Park. Then we start the short runs.”

“I can’t go to Chicago, not now!!” Jiyong felt his pulse begin racing; he had to talk to Seunghyun! He had a short, paralyzing vision of what could happen if he showed his face in the Second City while Capone still ruled it. Timtam elbowed him.

“Why not? It’s the best good time on the whole circuit – you wait ‘til we’re in the wilds of Manitoba and _then_ tell me ya got no use for Chicago!” Jiyong just shook his head, hands balled together in his lap. One of the other acts, a young man with hair completely covering his head and face, was peering at him over Timtam’s shoulder.

“Maybe he’s got his reasons.” He watched Jiyong bite his lip. “Trouble?” he asked, and Jiyong nodded fervently.

“Ohhh,” said Timtam, as if that cleared it all up; he shot Jiyong a sideways glance, reevaluating him. Jiyong supposed it wasn’t exactly rare for people to join up with the circus ‘cos they were on the lam from something, but he couldn’t imagine what Timtam thought that might be in his case. “College Man, too?”

“Yeah,” admitted Jiyong. He badly wanted Seunghyun here right now.

“Well.” The dwarf took a swig from his flask and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth; he really needed a shave, thought Jiyong irrelevantly. “Ya better go talk to the gaffer. But I doubt he’s gonna like it.”

 

Terrell _didn’t_ like it. He told them so quite distinctly. It wasn’t as if their manager was sore about losing out on money from _Jiyong’s_ performance, but he was clearly disappointed that he wouldn’t have Seunghyun’s fireworks to wow the Chicago crowds.

“I already told the advance agent we’d be having them,” said Terrell severely, chewing his cigar in annoyance. “What a waste of his time.”

“I could show one of your technical people how to set them up,” said Seunghyun doubtfully. “But I don’t have enough supplies on me for a whole two weeks’ worth of shows, and I wouldn’t want to risk the Big Top on having anyone else make them from scratch.”

“…Fine.” Terrell gave Jiyong a vexed look, as if this was all his fault – which it was. But the big man hadn’t pressed them as to why they couldn’t enter Chicago, and Jiyong figured this wasn’t _such_ an unusual occurrence. Terrell opened a ledger and began scratching things out pointedly. “You won’t get paid until you start pulling your weight,” he snapped. “And if we can’t take you into the city you can’t ride the train with us. You’ll have to meet us in Danville on…” He peered at the route sheet. “…The twenty-sixth.”

“Yes, Boss,” said Jiyong meekly.

“Anything _else_?”

“No, Boss.”

“Then get out.” They left the agent’s car – Terrell had his own fancy compartment at the back of the train but he wouldn’t see anyone so humble as Jiyong in there, said Timtam – and tried to find someplace to stand that wouldn’t be in the way. The lot was still full of activity, menagerie men bedding down their charges, car loaders hard at work, and a group of kinkers dancing to a scratch band around a fire. Everyone seemed to have a place, a purpose, and Jiyong was angry he and Seunghyun would have to be outsiders even longer. But that wasn’t Terrell’s fault: it was Capone’s and McGurn’s and Mr. Insull’s.

“Hey.” Seunghyun gently took his hand under cover of darkness. “Wanna find a baggage car to sleep in?” Jiyong smiled at him and nodded. “Go get your kit,” said Seunghyun. “I don’t wanna be alone tonight.” Jiyong squeezed his hand and trotted off. Outsiders they might still be; but thank God they were here together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1I have so much trivia this time I figured out how to do footnotes, where I'll put info and my research sources (but if you don't care about trivia just ignore 'em haha). So: Zack Terrell was the real manager of the circus Jiyong and Tabi are trying to join. He reportedly had big ears, smoked cigars, dressed to the nines, and “had the sadistic composition of a defrauding banker” (Rossi, _Spangles, Elephants, Violets & Me_, 2009, 44). So they'll have to work hard to please him ^^.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 2This is actually true, which I didn't discover 'til after I had Ji and Seunghyun steal all those diamonds in the last fic. (Davis (2002). _The Circus Age: Culture & society under the American Big Top_) So many of the random plot decisions I made in Bombshell have ended up coincidentally paying off in this one! [return to text]  
> 
> 
> 3The scale of the American railroad circus at its height was staggering: Barnum & Bailey would have over 1,000 employees, as many animals, and all their equipment in a train with 100 cars, so it was like a moving village. There's a great PBS documentary called _The American Experience: The Circus_ that gives an amazingly detailed history of circuses with awesome period footage and animation, I highly recommend it! [return to text]  
> 
> 
> ***
> 
> I ran out of appropriate Bigbang songs for chapter titles, so I'm using popular songs from the '20s and '30s. This chapter is "Fugitive From A Harem" by Edgar Hayes And His Orchestra (you can find most of the songs on YouTube if you wanna get in the mood ^^).
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the first installment! Obviously later things are gonna get complicated and angsty for a while, but you wouldn't expect anything else from me, would you XD.


	2. Call Of The Freaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong and Seunghyun deal with their first day at work.

“At least,” said Seunghyun on the second morning, as the Circus train disappeared in the direction of Chicago and left them standing in the sadness of the empty lot, “we’ve got two more weeks together. I thought I was gonna have an episode last night, being split from you so suddenly – I need some time to get ready for it!”

“Yeah,” agreed Jiyong. He wrapped his arms around Seunghyun’s waist, tucked his head beneath the taller man’s chin. “Let’s go find someplace in town that’ll rent us cheap digs.” He inhaled deeply. “I want as much of you as I can get.”

They decided to stay put in Peru ‘til the end of the Chicago run. Seunghyun figured its citizens were used to having weird-looking people around, and they’d be more likely to find a friendly boarding house there than in Danville. For two weeks they tried to keep busy and not think about the money and fun they were missing out on. With the start of the season Peru had emptied out and now only the townsfolk were left. Seunghyun talked a store owner into giving them the odd job delivering groceries, but they didn’t know the streets well enough and were put on sweeping and tidying duty instead. Jiyong liked things to be clean but he _detested_ manual labor – he was only now coming to realize how pampered he’d been during his captivity in the House – but he tried to hide it from Seunghyun.

“Show me your hands,” said Seunghyun after Jiyong had spent ages scrubbing them back at their poky rented room. Jiyong held them out and the older man took them gently in both his own, rubbing his thumbs across the palms and the pads of Jiyong’s slender fingers. “My poor Jiyong,” Seunghyun murmured. “They were always so smooth – I’m sorry you’ve gotta do this kind of work.”

“Does it bother you?” Jiyong asked. It bothered _him_ , a little bit at least, but he knew he could get used to it – so long as it didn’t make him less alluring! Seunghyun smiled, then bent his head to kiss the smaller man’s palm.

“Of course not, not any more than _this_.” He slid his fingers over the scar from the bullet on Jiyong’s bicep. “I couldn’t possibly find you less than beautiful.” Jiyong preened to himself a bit, he couldn’t help it. “I just…I don’t want you to do anything that makes you unhappy. You’ve had a lifetime of that already!”

“Tabi, c’mere.” Jiyong slid both hands around his lover’s neck. “I’m not unhappy,” he said, and kissed him. “I can handle sweeping some floors if it means I can come back to _this_.” Seunghyun smiled at him, that warm and radiant smile he gave to no-one else. And so their time in Peru passed quickly.

 

* * *

 

“Here you are at last,” drawled Timtam when Jiyong crawled into his tiny bottom bunk at Danville after enjoying the first passenger train ride of his life; they’d arrived in the nick of time, loading was finished and they were about to roll out. The little man’s head appeared upside-down over the side of a bunk near the ceiling. “Ya missed some major parties, no-one goes wild like Chicagoans!”

“I’m sure,” said Jiyong, remembering the drag balls and speakeasies he’d been to back in the day; he didn’t miss much about his former life but he sure wouldn’t mind doing _that_ again. “But somehow we managed to go without!”

“Fuckin’ the whole time, were ya?” Jiyong threw a cotton ball at his head.

“Pretty much…” He suppressed a sigh. He and Seunghyun had been preparing themselves for the separation by getting as much of each other as possible; he wasn’t sure it’d worked ‘cos already he missed having that familiar body curled around him. Not that Seunghyun would fit in this horrible bunk with the sideshow Giant pushing down the mattress in the bed above him.

“Poor boy. Well, if ya get blue balls you can bribe some menagerie guy to let the pair of you kip with the lead-stock.” Timtam seemed about to offer another piece of sage advice that Jiyong knew his lover would hate, but suddenly the car was juddering and they began to move in a thunder and squeal of metal. “Alrighty,” said the dwarf, “back we jump to Indiana!”

“This route isn’t very straight,” observed Jiyong. He bet Terrell had made the two of them haul ass all the way out here as a bit of petty punishment. Timtam shook his head pityingly.

“If there’s one thing you’re gonna learn, kid, it’s that there’s _nothin’_ straight in the Circus.”

“Shut up, Timtam!” yelled someone from further down the car. “We’re unloadin’ at six in the damn morning, some of us wanna get some fuckin’ sleep!” Timtam gave Jiyong one last prophetic look, then clambered back to his own bunk, turning out the lamp on the way and plunging them into darkness. Jiyong stared up at the shadowy springs of the bunk above him and let the train rattle him onward. He was kinda terrified of tomorrow – but he also couldn’t _wait_.

 

* * *

 

They arrived at the lot in Terre Haute very early, but the first thing Jiyong saw when the Wolf Boy woke him up and made him look out the high window was a crowd of people – mostly women and kids and some guys who looked like they were on their way to work. They were all craning their necks excitedly, waiting to see what the train would disgorge.

“We call them ‘lot lice’,” the young man said critically.

“There’s so many of ‘em!” said Jiyong. “Why don’t they just wait for the show to open?”

“‘Cos this is free,” the Wolf Boy explained. “We got dozens of advance men in town weeks beforehand to organize supplies and billposters and stuff so they know exactly when to turn up. They’ll be back tonight I guess, but unloading’s a spectacle in itself, ‘specially if there’s a disaster!”

“We always did a huge parade before,” chimed in the resident Fat Man from the other end of the car: he needed a special big bunk that took up its whole width. “They’d let the kinkers and animal wagons off at the station and they’d march through town to advertise the show. But I hear the Corporation said no this year. Dunno why.”

“Not that _we_ got to do it much,” complained Timtam in a bleary voice from his bed. “They like to make the rubes _pay_ to see the freaks.” That made sense, Jiyong figured. He pressed his nose against the dirty glass and watched the tents being unloaded, followed by the elephants and a torrent of roustabouts.

“The bulls help raise the Big Top,” said the Wolf Boy. “They’re stronger than twenty canvasmen so they use ‘em to haul the poles upright; the whole tent weighs tons and tons.”

“Oh, wow!” Jiyong would pay to see that – no wonder so many people had turned out to stare. He wrestled the window up and poked his head out to get a decent view: the sea of canvas was already spread out and laced together and the elephants were surrounding it, their handlers talking to them while they were hitched up. The Big Top looked unrealistically huge, he couldn’t see how they’d get it up at all: the thick center pole had to be sixty feet long. He eagerly leaned further out: _everything_ about Circus life was exciting

“Uh-uh!!” bawled Paul Harrell the car manager in Jiyong’s direction, suddenly deafening him from twenty feet away. “No, ya don’t! Sideshow stays put ‘til the tents are up, Zack says! No walkin’ around givin’ it away for free this time. Go on, get that ink back inside!” Jiyong pulled his head in and dropped down sharpish, rather rattled by the volume.

“Aw,” grouched Timtam; he lit up. Jiyong shut the window leaving just a crack for air and joined him, and everyone settled down to grumble.

“At least we’re not the only ones missing out on the march this year,” said the Living Skeleton – he couldn’t weigh more than seventy pounds, though he was taller than Jiyong, and seemed pretty popular in the car because he needed so little room. Jiyong thought he sounded smart, educated like Seunghyun, and wondered how he’d ended up here. “As above, so below.”

“Yeah, well, below’s gettin’ pretty ripe,” retorted a voice from the unenviable bottom row underneath Sky High Tex[4], who was seven foot six and took up a quarter of the car. Jiyong, who shared the row – being the rookie – heartily agreed. “If we don’t get an airin’ before long there’s not gonna be much pizazz in the tent today!”

Today: his first performance would be _today_ , thought Jiyong with a shiver – nerves, of course, and maybe even some anticipation: it’d been a long time since he’d had a chance to show off for anyone but Seunghyun. A lurch in his stomach told him it was mostly fear, because he wasn’t here for anyone’s admiration: he was a ‘human oddity’ now, and the customers were coming for freaks. Well, if that was all he was allowed to be, he’d damn well be the best!

 

* * *

 

Jiyong sat alone in his small booth, feeling his pulse race as he waited for the sideshow to open. It wasn’t a setup calculated to make a newcomer relax. The huge tent was divided up with canvas partitions to form dozens of small rooms around its edges, with a wide space in the middle where the customers could mill about and stare, exactly like they were at a museum and Jiyong and the other ‘oddities’ were the exhibits. There was a stage at one end where he’d been told the most popular acts would do performances; Jiyong hoped he’d make it up there before long, but first he had to succeed at _this_.

As he peered nervously across at the acts directly opposite him – the Wolf Boy, Ed the Ostrich, and an elegantly dressed Bearded Lady Jiyong hadn’t met yet – he heard a loud, enthusiastic voice pipe up outside the tent, pitched to carry to hundreds of ears.

“Welcome, ladies, gentlemen and young ‘uns on this sunny afternoon, welcome to your one and only chance to witness the greatest ‘living wonders’ of the globe! From towering to tiny, hair-thin to huge, we have them all and for a measly fifty cents they will astound, amaze, paralyze and petrify, electrify and educate your eyes and ears! Yes _ma’am_ , you may bring the children, there is nothing here that will shock innocent minds!” Jiyong knew what this was, he’d heard them in Chicago before, talking up the traveling carnival acts – a Circus this size would have several orators or ‘talkers’ to persuade the crowd that the Big Top wasn’t all that was worth seeing.

“He’s pretty good!” said Jiyong to whoever was next to him.

“Not bad,” came a sultry female voice with a foreign accent from behind the canvas wall. “If you pay him he will give you a personal mention.”

“Do we have anything ‘exotic’?” the talker was booming. “Well now, sir, I should just say we do! Less the price of a drop of moonshine and you may view the charms of Lena the Snake Lady from the jungles of India, and believe me when I say she is as lithe as her serpent – plenty to study, oh, yes.” Jiyong heard the voice in the next booth laugh; it was a very sexy sound. The talker was now speaking in a loud whisper: “And for the discerning gentleman I may recommend our _other_ show after tonight’s Big Top performance: a little _too_ educational for the children…” Jiyong wanted to know what _that_ was. But now the talker was encouraging them to line up and ready their money, which meant they’d be coming in and his new career was about to begin! With a flutter in his stomach Jiyong peeled off his dressing gown and sat cross-legged in his modest briefs on an oriental cushion he’d borrowed from a prop car. Then the tent flap opened and the rubes streamed in.

It was one of the strangest afternoons of Jiyong’s life, and he’d had a few of those. He was used to being stared at while wearing very little clothing – often by groups of people – but nothing like the sea of adults and children who pushed and nudged to have a good gawp at the human attractions before them. Instead of the low murmur of admiring millionaires he heard gasps of shock, laughter, and a babble of questioning voices as the outsiders tried to comprehend the weirdness they’d paid to see. Soon the tent was so crowded and noisy Jiyong could barely see or hear his fellow oddities: he felt very small and very alone; of course the rubes dashed to see the most popular acts, the ones with the biggest banners outside – Jiyong had seen his own and it was puny; he supposed he’d have to earn anything larger. Some of the other acts did performances: the bearded lady had a piano and gave them some popular tunes in a sweet, very feminine voice; Ed ate things that really didn’t oughta be eaten; the Snake Lady next door did…whatever she did that made the men crowd around her. But before long Jiyong began to attract attention of his own.

“Say, Carol-Anne, have you ever seen anything like it?!” A young African-American woman in her Sunday best clutched at the arm of her friend and stared at Jiyong’s tattoos with her mouth open.

“He’s gotta be the Boy from the South China Seas,” pronounced Carol-Anne authoritatively. “It said on the banner.” Jiyong gave them a smile to hide his anxiety.

“It’s a boy?” said the first girl doubtfully.

“Course he is, stupid!” Her friend leaned in to whisper in her ear; both their eyes went wide and they started giggling. “Well, why don’t you ask him?” suggested Carol-Anne. She turned to Jiyong.

“You _are_ a boy, right?” she said slowly, like he might not understand.

“Yes ma’am!” replied Jiyong; this wasn’t so bad, young women were easy to handle. He made the smile a little more charming and got a hint of one back.

“Jeez Louise, he speaks English!” The first girl again. “Where do you come from?” she asked in a loud voice. Jiyong sat up: he’d been rehearsing for this every night with Seunghyun in their rented room, ever since Terrell had asked him for his backstory. Not the real one, of course: his professional story.

“I don’t know _where_ I’m from,” he told them as mysteriously as possible. The girls goggled at him. “Maybe Japan, maybe China, maybe Siam – maybe someplace lost to the West entirely!” He leaned toward them, changing position so they could get a different view of his tattoos. “I remember it was a country full of sunshine and palaces – and _gold_.” A few more people had stopped their wandering to gather round and find out what had the women so curious, so Jiyong turned up the volume a little. “When I was about five years old my mother left me to nap in the garden. I remember the flowers, and the sparkling stones on her fingers.” He paused. “When I woke up again I was a teenager.” Noises of disbelief, amusement, interest. “I was in the middle of the ocean,” he said, “and both my arms looked like _this_.” He extended the limbs gracefully to let them get a look at the tiny letters and characters.

“What happened?!” called an intrepid kid from its father’s shoulder. Jiyong smiled and launched into the rest of his story, which involved a succession of pirates, whalers, kidnappings, and slavery – with each new owner adding to the mysterious tattoos. It didn’t make a whole lotta sense, but it didn’t really have to: they just wanted to look at him. Some of the ladies seemed truly shocked, others like they didn’t believe a word of it – obviously they knew he’d done this to himself, and his Chicago accent was hardly exotic. Several kids seemed to find him fascinating and others totally scary, while a few men stared at him with narrowed eyes as if they didn’t know _what_ to think.

“And at last I came to America,” Jiyong told them happily. “The first place I ever set foot where a man can walk free. It’s a real fine country and I don’t plan on leaving again!” Seunghyun reckoned the small towns and countryside especially would appreciate some patriotic enthusiasm so he’d tacked that bit on the end. And there _was_ Seunghyun! The older man was lurking to the side of the paying customers, watching Jiyong’s hustle with great affection and some relief: he must’ve been worried and come to check on him, thought Jiyong, touched. He turned his attention back to the rubes, who’d started asking questions while others moved on to see something more exciting.

“Did you say palaces?” said the original girl; Jiyong didn’t think she was the sharpest tool in the box. “Perhaps you’re a prince!”

“Maybe I am,” agreed Jiyong, tickled. Seunghyun was shaking his head and grinning at his vanity. Someone else asked to see his back; he turned round obligingly to display everything that could decently be displayed, and when he looked again Seunghyun had gone; he’d be needed in the Big Top soon, it’d be starting as soon as the sideshow closed.

For another forty minutes Jiyong posed and smiled and retold his story, vying with the other acts for the rubes’ notice. Some of their reactions were positive, some not. But he found out that first afternoon that whether it came from a lover or a room of rich men or a heaving tent of freakshow gawks, attention was _attention_ – and he loved it so much it made him tingle all over.

He was so tired by the time the last customer shuffled out it was all he could do to put his robe back on and follow his colleagues mindlessly to the back yard area. He could hear the Big Top band but had no energy right now to go see.

“Food,” ordered Timtam, pushing the younger man towards Ed before he hustled off to work the main show. Jiyong had no idea how the dwarf was still so lively: Timtam had turned up onstage halfway through the sideshow; there was a tiny boxing ring set up there and he’d gone several quite spectacular rounds with another of his small colleagues while a crowd of men yelled and cheered them on. Timtam had won, and now he had to go be a juggler or whatever in the Big Top. “Here,” added the little man, and shoved a flask into Jiyong’s limp hands. “Get some of that down ya!”

Ed led Jiyong to the cookhouse, where everyone not involved with the main show was shoveling hamburgers and beans down their faces next to the Wild West show cowboys at their own table – they would go on at the end, after the Sells-Floto headliners. Jiyong felt better after some food, and better yet once he sampled the flask and found it half-full of fiery bourbon. He made it back to the train, crawled into bed beneath Sky High, and slept for three hours.

 

* * *

 

The evening sideshow was easier, somehow. He was more alive now that he’d been fed and rested, and although the customers were louder and ruder and probably drunker he was energized by their stares. When the final few rubes hurried out of the tent and away down the Midway towards the Big Top Jiyong stared after them longingly – he wanted to go too! But he didn’t know the rules yet. Still, his desire must’ve been obvious because the Ostrich was waving for his attention across the trampled floor of the tent.

“Go on,” called Ed kindly in his horrible voice. “If you run you can catch the opening Spec!” Jiyong smiled at him gratefully and darted past all of them into the men’s dressing room, threw on pants and jacket and shoes, and high-tailed it behind the long line of Midway stalls to the Big Top. He was panting by the time he got there and the doors – well, flaps – were already closed. Jiyong circled the vast tent to find a side entrance; he gasped with surprise when a large hand came out of the dark and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

“No sneaking in for free!” barked a voice. Jiyong twisted round and saw the unmistakable features of a roustabout; he was holding a baseball bat. The man peered at his face, then his throat where the tattoos were bared. “Oh. Sorry, I thought you were a town kid. You wanna go see?”

“Yeah!” said Jiyong breathlessly. “It’s my first time!” The roustabout nodded and marched him round the tent, lifting an unobtrusive flap and pushing him through.

“Hey, Boss, got a sideshow for the cattle guard seats.” Jiyong looked up appealingly at the man to whom he’d been delivered; they were in a narrow alley between two high tiers of seats filled with chattering locals. He guessed the guy was a seating manager or similar because he pointed silently to a row of straw bales topped with boards, situated between the real seats and the huge outer track of the Hippodrome.

“Cover your tattoos,” the man told him shortly. Jiyong buttoned up and snuck off to take a bale near a couple of spare Midway workers in front of the Center Ring; he guessed the tier above them was the Grandstand seats, the best view in the house. As he did so the large brass band struck up an ‘opening’ kinda number and Jiyong saw the faraway ritzy figure of an announcer step up to a microphone beside the back door: the performers’ entrance tunnel to the Big Top. He felt a thrill of anticipation all across his skin as the announcer’s voice boomed out over the mic, welcoming the audience to the second-largest circus on the continent, the greatest spectacle the citizens of Terre Haute, Indiana had ever seen, the brightest stars and most exotic creatures from the four corners of the Earth – and so on and so on. Jiyong lost the thread quite early on ‘cos as soon as he began speaking the back door filled with glittering shapes and the opening Spectacle began.

Jiyong watched with his eyes and his mouth wide open, and didn’t close them once. The Spec filled the Hippodrome with noise and color – he’d never dreamed there were so many performers, not even after sharing the train with them! Kinkers in wagons and carriages, on horseback, unicycles, stilts, and just plain old walking; a few of Buffalo Bill’s cowboys patrolling the inner edge of the track as an advertisement for later. And the costumes! They were dazzling; even the elephants wore spangles. They did a slow circuit, the acrobats and high flyers tumbling, the strongman with a beautiful lady on each shoulder, and the ballet girls filling up the spaces with sequins and cleavage. Jiyong was bouncing in his seat like a kid when one of the clowns waddled up in his huge shoes and did some slapstick and juggling for the real children in the rows above him. It was hard to tell who it was under the makeup. The clown grinned, then thrust a bunch of daisies in Jiyong’s face and sprayed him all over with water – the local kids laughed.

“ _Now_ you’re a performer!” said Edgar with a cackle – Jiyong recognized the voice – and flapped off to rejoin his brothers. Jiyong spluttered and wiped his face, but he was laughing too.

By the time the last camel sulked out of the Big Top and the Spec was over he thought he’d never catch his breath again, such was the pitch of his enjoyment. There was a short pause as the band played another screamer and the concession vendors went through the audience hawking snacks, but soon enough the announcer started his spiel again and a number of acts came on to fill the three rings and two stages on the floor of the tent. Jiyong saw a troupe of lady acrobats balancing on each other’s heads and juggling with their feet, two tiny bareback riders, a tightrope walker, some dancing elephants, and a bunch more clowns; but there was too much happening at once to take it in.

Timtam turned up dressed as a penguin and did a comic juggling routine with a couple of clowns – there were clowns everywhere, all the time, around the edges and interacting with the dance troupes and crowd. The dwarf spotted Jiyong and flicked up a flipper while his juggling sacks were in mid-air, somehow conveying quite clearly that he was giving him the finger. Jiyong grinned at him and went back to trying to absorb the scene. The worker next to him gave him a handful of popcorn; he inhaled, caught the sweetness on his tongue and the clean scent of sawdust beneath the musky smell of sweat and animals. When he shut his eyes, dizzy with sensation, all the sounds hit him at once: the music and gasps and applause, the thud of hooves from the liberty horses and the shouted instructions from the red-coated Equestrian Director. It was like he was drowning; it was like a drug.

He opened his eyes at a bang high above him and an ‘ _ooohhh_ ’ from the audience, and as he saw a golden flower illuminate the canvas roof he knew Seunghyun had started his first show. There he was, crouched at the edge of Stage One with an assistant and several buckets of water, a scarf pulled up over his nose while he let the fireworks off. Even with his face covered Jiyong could see he was having fun, in his concentrating kinda way. Jiyong also spotted several performers watching anxiously from the back door like they thought the whole place was about to catch fire; but Seunghyun knew what he was doing, he always did. The breathtaking display played out, the horses continued their smooth routine undisturbed, and the crowd loved every minute of it.

Jiyong was grinning like a moron by the time Seunghyun finished without setting light to a single thing. He saw the older man jog unobtrusively through the back door as a line of ballet girls and acrobats floated the other way. He oughta go after him, he thought, to congratulate him and maybe snatch an illicit kiss in anticipation of the final display – but before he could do so the star aerialists began, and then Jiyong could think of nothing else.

Hours later he exited the Big Top in a daze, chivvied out by an army of roustabouts already tearing down the seats. He knew now what he wanted to do, what he wanted to _be_ , although he had never dreamed of such a thing until _tonight_ : he wanted to be a high flyer.

 

* * *

 

When they arrived at New Castle via the Big Four railroad Jiyong and Seunghyun were pleased to find the next day was a holiday.

“Sunday,” Ed the Ostrich explained piously to Jiyong while putting on a necktie. “Everyone’s at church, including half the workers. We’ll roll out this evening, but the day’s free.”

“I _thought_ there weren’t many kinkers around,” said Jiyong. He hadn’t been to church for years and wondered if they were expected to go.

“Yeah, management puts the top acts up in a hotel most Saturday nights.” Jiyong sighed enviously: he missed having a real bed.

“Coming to town, then?” asked Ed as he combed his mousy hair flat with water.

“…Later.” Jiyong wanted to go with Seunghyun but he wasn’t sure yet if his bunkmates would approve, not all of them knew about his relationship – and as Edgar had told him, rules were rules. Ed shrugged and went off to join the group of clowns waiting outside.

“Tough, isn’t it,” said the Wolf Boy from his bunk where he was reading a magazine about motorcycles. Jiyong looked at him inquiringly. “Going into town when you don’t look ‘normal’.” That wasn’t why Jiyong had hesitated; in fact he’d forgotten that the world outside the Circus might blink at the sight of them – or worse. Seunghyun hated the way small-towners treated even an Asian face; Jiyong couldn’t imagine what people like this guy and Timtam had to go through.

He was thus very thoughtful as he went outside and sat conspicuously near the riggers’ car to wait for his lover. He didn’t dare go in, he’d tried it once when they’d first arrived in Terre Haute and gotten a pretty unwelcoming reception. Seunghyun soon noticed and came out to join him.

“We going into town, then?” asked Seunghyun eagerly.

“Yeah, course.” Jiyong wasn’t about to let the reactions of a bunch of hicks stop him having his fun.

“Good.” Seunghyun shot a glance back at his car. “I wanna call Daesung.” The two of them walked away from the train. When they were at a safe distance Jiyong slid his hand into Seunghyun’s, and the older man clasped it tightly. He’d missed this so much! Jiyong was used to physical contact, physical affection, and a week without it had made him feel very odd. It was so good to look up at Seunghyun’s tall frame beside him, that handsome face above it, to enjoy the warmth of his skin and his loving regard. But in only a few minutes Jiyong had to let go: they’d reached the main path toward civilization and it was teeming with Cirkies who had the same idea. There were a few couples walking arm in arm; they all wore wedding rings. The rest of the workers were alone or in single-sex groups, the young women especially bunched together as if they’d get scolded for merely keeping company with a man. Jiyong hoped it was just ‘cos this was a Sunday. Most of the Cirkies didn’t know them and didn’t give them a second look, but a few glanced at himself and Seunghyun curiously. The taller man moved a little further away from him, his gorgeous features anxious. Jiyong sighed.

New Castle was like any other small town on a spring Sunday morning. When they entered the place it seemed dead ‘cos everyone was at church; the only things that enlivened it were the hundreds of Circus posters, brilliantly colored and eye-poppingly huge. Jiyong examined them happily while Seunghyun found a lone public telephone box and called Daesung’s fancy apartment.

“Still asleep,” he guessed as he stepped back out.

“I’m not surprised!” Jiyong was pretty amazed at himself for being up and about at this time in the morning. They went for a walk around the town so Jiyong could peer wistfully into closed store windows; he didn’t see anything particularly stylish – which was to be expected, this wasn’t New York City – but he was so starved for fashion he’d take what he could get. A while later the church services began to let out and here came the people and the color, best clothes and hats all round. The African-American Baptist church won on style points, Jiyong decided; he wanted to dress up nice again too!

A few cafés opened their doors and Jiyong dragged Seunghyun inside. The waitress and other customers looked pretty wary as they found a table, then apparently remembered the Circus, which gave them a legitimate reason to be there. Jiyong could see the respectable ladies craning their necks and speculating about what it was he and Seunghyun did: he had his tattoos well covered so they’d just have to enjoy the mystery. They got their coffee in the end and Seunghyun discovered that the place had a payphone, so he went to try again.

“Dae!” he said into mouthpiece after several minutes’ negotiating with the operator. “Oh, you were at church too, huh?” There was a long pause in which Seunghyun attempted to speak again but couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Jiyong perched on the edge of the table by the ‘phone and watched his beloved start to smile. “Have you seen my mom and dad?” was the first thing he asked when Daesung piped down. He looked so eager, white teeth biting into his lip, and Jiyong knew he was missing his parents bad. From the way his expression changed the younger man guessed Daesung had: his lovely eyes turned relieved, but also sad. After a little while Seunghyun raised his eyebrows and turned to Jiyong. “Dae says he’s been at your folks’ house!”

“What?!” Jiyong jumped up from the table. “Lemme talk to him!” Seunghyun got outta the way and the younger man put the receiver to his ear. Daesung was still going midstream. “It’s me, Jiyong!” said Jiyong over his chattering. “When were you at my place?!”

“The other weekend,” replied Daesung’s cheerful voice. “They’ve been inviting me round on Sundays for a while since we met at…you know. Your mom’s a great cook!” Jiyong promised himself he’d write to his family _soon_.

“How are they?” he asked excitedly. Daesung told him: Dami was married and living in a small house with her Texan young man; Soomin was studying for her high school finals; Jiyong’s parents seemed quite well.

“You met my dad?” said Jiyong quietly. Seunghyun looked anxious at that – he reached out to touch Jiyong’s hand before feeding more coins into the telephone.

“Yeah, he seems nice.” Jiyong wondered what his sisters had told their father that’d gotten Daesung such a pleasant reception; his dad couldn’t possibly know the Politics student had anything to do with him. He hoped Daesung would never tell the man: it was so good to know there was someone who could keep an eye on his family, but if his father ever found out Daesung would probably be banished from the house just like Seunghyun had been.

“I’m gunna send Mom some money at the end of the month,” he told Daesung. “Soon as I get paid. Just…just in case they’re worrying.” He didn’t know how long the treasure box he’d given his mother would last, and he was determined to keep supporting them; it wasn’t like there was much to spend money on here anyway.

“I’ll tell Claire,” said Daesung happily.

“Yeah, her or Dami. Not my dad.” Daesung blithely agreed, so Jiyong said goodbye and returned the telephone to Seunghyun.

“What’s going on at school?” he heard the older man ask. He listened, frowned, and asked a few more questions Jiyong couldn’t figure out. Then he quickly said he’d call again soon, and replaced the receiver. “Operator cut us off,” he told Jiyong vaguely. “Ran out of change.”

“What was all that about?” inquired Jiyong as they paid and left the café to stroll along the quiet street: everyone had gone home again for Sunday lunch. He hadn’t been concentrating, had been thinking about Daesung and his father, but Seunghyun’s face looked solemn.

“Dae told me there’ve still been men around campus asking after me,” he said. “I dunno who they were: Outfit members seems most likely, they questioned Daesung a few times and Youngbae too – anyone who looks Korean.”

“So Capone still hasn’t forgotten.” Jiyong looked around, then slid his arm through Seunghyun’s.

“No, and he won’t. We’ll just have to hope they stop actively looking for us eventually.” The bigger man frowned. “Or it could’ve been cops: Watkins was probably goddamn _livid_ after what I did to him.” Jiyong remembered how pleased Seunghyun had been that the rich kid had gotten a tiny bit of what was coming to him.

“You said it was Youngbae knocked him out!”

“Yeah, but Watkins doesn’t know that and hopefully he never will. Let ‘em pin it on me, it doesn’t matter now. Then again…” He paused.

“What?”

“Maybe it wasn’t the Outfit _or_ the Law. Maybe Insull’s trying to find you.” Jiyong thought about this. He decided that, although the idea made him uneasy, it probably wasn’t too likely.

“Ri said Mr. Insull wasn’t looking for me,” he reminded Seunghyun. His lover gave him a stare that told Jiyong exactly what he thought about _that_.

“So he said. But that was months ago – and besides, I don’t trust that old bastard one jot.” He sighed heavily. “It’s gonna be ages ‘til we can go home, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” agreed Jiyong. They’d left the town now and were walking back through the countryside. Off to their right was a grassy meadow; it was a warm day with not a soul around. The smaller man wrapped an arm around Seunghyun’s waist, gave his partner an inviting smile, and led him towards the field. “But ‘til then let’s at least _try_ and have fun.”

 

* * *

 

The season continued, and gradually this strange life – the separation, the caste system, the closed society – became familiar. There were still a million things Jiyong didn’t know, but as they toured through Pennsylvania, Ohio, New York, he felt more as though he belonged. From what he could tell Seunghyun was fitting in okay too: he was as popular with the ladies here as he’d been in Gibtown, and to Jiyong’s amusement the older man was getting a little bit pleased with himself about it. Jiyong certainly wasn’t jealous – it was only natural that people should flock to that charming man – but he did wish he could have Seunghyun for a sleeping partner instead of the denizens of the sideshow car.

Jiyong had spent much of his life entertaining men, but this was the first time he’d ever had to _live_ with a bunch of ‘em and he wasn’t at all sure he approved of their ways. Compared to his female colleagues in the House they snored, they ate with their mouths open, and they smelled. Some days he wished he _had_ agreed to sleep in the lady oddities’ car. Only Sky High and the so-called Wolf Boy were at all interested in their appearance – though that did give Jiyong more time in front of the mirror, which they ribbed him about constantly. When he got tired of his growing hair and asked if they knew any salons on the route where an Asian could go Edgar laughed in his face.

“Jesus, _you_ oughta be the clown!” He slapped Jiyong on the back. “We cut each other’s hair on the road,” he explained to the younger man’s dismay. Jiyong tried to imagine letting these guys get anywhere near his head with a pair of scissors, and shuddered. In the end he asked a showgirl in the lunch line and she directed him to one of the Wardrobe assistants, who gave him a style that would suit marcel waves – in case he ever had occasion to get his glad rags on in the future. When he turned up for the matinée they all laughed at him again; the words ‘fairy’ and ‘princess’ were much in use. And yet in spite of all this the sideshow guys were surprisingly easy to get along with.

If he was close with anyone apart from Seunghyun he’d have to say it was Timtam. Jiyong was pretty surprised about this at first: the little man had obviously resented being lumbered with his Circus education, and even once he’d gotten over that he was a grumpy asshole most of the time. He seemed immune to Jiyong’s attempts to charm him, just drank and read pulp magazines and spent ages scribbling in an old notebook instead of paying attention to the younger man. Even so, Jiyong liked him – maybe ‘cos he was _so_ refreshingly awful and didn’t apologize for it. The Big Top kinkers – the aerialists and equestrian stars especially – didn’t seem to pay much mind to Timtam; they tolerated or else barely noticed him and the other little people, who moved about on a lower level than most people’s eyelines. The clowns bridged the gap in the middle, existing in a mysterious world of their own full of slang and slapstick, and would socialize with anyone if there was a chance of a free drink. Timtam was different; course, it didn’t help that he was hungover half the time and truculent all of it. Still, Jiyong felt vaguely that it was unfair: the dwarves had to work the Big Top _and_ turn up for the sideshow stages, they oughta get some respect. So he was extra nice to Timtam and his colleagues, and they in turn were marginally less rude to him than to everyone else.

“You never gonna learn, ya dumb kid?” scolded Timtam as he dragged Jiyong through the back yard to the agent’s tent. The little trouper strode in ahead of him and requested iodine from the medicine box.

“What happened?” asked the general agent as Jiyong sheepishly poked his head through the tent flap. Timtam grabbed the bottle.

“He got bit. Second time this month.” Jiyong gave a sad sigh and flopped down on a stool while Timtam poured some of the smelly liquid onto a piece of cotton wool and thrust it at him. “Clean up,” the dwarf ordered.

“Ow!” said Jiyong at the sting: the dull bite had just about broken the skin.

“It was your own fault.” The younger man nodded. He’d been visiting the menagerie after the setup; he liked the enormous tent with its exotic animals to look at, and liked stopping in the petting corner where kids could come touch the more domestic beasts. Most of those animals were fine with him, although he’d never been around them growing up: the big lizards and parrots were fun, the llamas were adorable, and the miniature pigs even cuter. But today Jiyong had made the mistake of not looking where he was going and backed into one of the Shetland ponies, and had immediately got bitten: because, as he’d discovered very early in his Circus life, if there was one animal that couldn’t _stand_ him it was horses. This was a shame, ‘cos the train contained dozens of them; he was only lucky that the Wild West boys were snooty enough to keep themselves and their mounts well away from the Cirkies.

“I didn’t hurt him!” he said mournfully. “But you should’ve seen the eyeballing he gave me after.”

“I dunno why they don’t like you,” agreed Timtam, who was not very successfully concealing a grin. “It’s really damn weird,” he added to the agent. “But _none_ of ‘em wanna be around him: not the baggage horses or the little ‘uns or the ring stock. Wonder if it’s the way he smells.”

“I don’t smell!” protested Jiyong. He’d been kinda hurt once he’d realized the whole species had a personal problem with him, because he _liked_ horses: they were graceful and beautiful and he oughta get on really well with them! He’d had visions as a kid of riding bareback in the ring, doing tricks with one of those white creatures whose manes almost brushed the ground. It was the most glamorous circus act he’d been able to imagine before he’d seen the aerialists. But _that_ dream had gone up in smoke the second time he’d been kicked in the ass. Now the equestrians gave him dirty looks if he got within three feet of their mounts. Jiyong could handle being disliked by humans – this, though, this was plain unfair.

“‘S alright,” said Timtam in a tone approximating comfort as they left the tent. “Not like you gotta have anythin’ to do with ‘em.”

“But I _wanna_ have things to do with them.” Jiyong scuffed along beside the dwarf, his left hand throbbing with pain. “They oughta like me, I’m nothing but nice to them!”

“Oh, ought they, Princess?” Timtam snorted and preceded Jiyong into the sideshow dressing room. “Bet you’re so used to bein’ admired, huh – must’ve come as a shock.”

“Shut up, Timtam!” Jiyong stripped down and put on his bathrobe, sulking mildly. Still, the smaller man had taken him to get first aid, and he _had_ tried – however half-assedly – to make him feel better. Jiyong figured Timtam was the best friend he was gunna get. He heard the rising din of voices as the Circus opened for business and the rubes poured onto the Midway to buy snacks and play games and scope out the attractions. He exhaled in resignation and rubbed his hand – he’d have to wait ‘til after the night show for Seunghyun to kiss it better. And that’d be if they were lucky.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t easy for Jiyong to spend ‘quality’ time with his lover. At first it was exciting, sneaking away from the lot between rural shows and doing it in the woods or open countryside; or arranging to meet at one of the baggage cars before roll-out and hoping the loaders wouldn’t find them come morning. But after a few months it started to get old. Jiyong was used to having sex take up a large chunk of his day – sure, he hadn’t always enjoyed it at the House, but it was such a part of his life; now they considered themselves lucky if they got a night together twice a week. Jiyong’s bunkmates weren’t dumb, they’d figured out he had something going on – or Timtam had told them. Jiyong didn’t mind them knowing, he only cared that they disapproved: not ‘cos he was in love with a man but because, as Timtam said, it broke down the solidarity of the car if one of ‘em was always creeping off to get laid. So sometimes he was morally _obliged_ to stay.

“It’s not only about fucking,” he told Seunghyun one night, curled against the bigger man’s chest in the canvas car as the train sped on to Wisconsin under a mild July sky.

“I know that,” Seunghyun told him in that low rumble against his hair. Jiyong just thought he oughta mention it ‘cos they hadn’t spent the night together in ages, and once he’d got Seunghyun to himself he’d made him do it three times – not that his Tabi needed a lot of prompting.

“I miss _this_.” He nuzzled his head against Seunghyun’s shoulder, inhaled the scent of him amid the dusty canvas. Since they’d first met the older man had given him more sweetness than he’d ever known before; it was unpleasant to be denied it. Seunghyun nodded in agreement and held him tighter; his long, work-roughened fingers smoothed along the tattoos on Jiyong’s spine. “I miss talking, too.”

“Speaking of, we oughta go over our finances sometime, see how we’re doing with the savings.” Said finances were currently in a leather pouch strung around Seunghyun’s neck: Jiyong was without his clothes too often so they’d agreed it was safer that way, and anyhow Seunghyun would be a lot more intimidating to anyone who fancied taking their little stock of jewels.

“Sure,” murmured Jiyong. Seunghyun yawned hugely. “…Later,” he amended, and leaned up to lay a goodnight kiss on his lips. “Go to sleep, baby.”

Less than a minute later Seunghyun did. Jiyong didn’t mind, he liked to listen to his lover breathe, catch glimpses of his perfect face and luxurious eyelashes when there was enough light outside to illuminate the car for a second. Jiyong stood up and wrapped a spare blanket around himself, climbing up a heap of canvas and leaning his elbows on the lip of the high window to watch the world go by: he enjoyed the mysterious silhouettes of the countryside brightened by flashes of civilization – all these different landscapes, all these new places. As they rattled along past another well-lit village, Jiyong reflected on the sudden notion that every place they traveled through had been touched by Mr. Insull’s hand: his industrial empire-building had connected and illuminated thirty States, and Jiyong would finally be visiting them. He couldn’t tell if the thought was more frightening or comforting; it was only now he’d left Chicago that he began to appreciate the vast _scale_ of the man who had looked down far enough to notice his small teenage self and pluck him from a station bench. Jiyong couldn’t imagine being able to think so big and so narrow at the same time, and decided the idea of being constantly in such a person’s territory _was_ pretty scary; he hoped his old keeper wasn’t still looking for him.

“What you thinking about?” asked Seunghyun, who had woken up and was blinking at him with that goofy smile on his face. Jiyong snuggled back down beside him.

“Nothing,” he said, and forgot about it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4This guy was a real actor and circus performer, Ralph E. Madson. He had a variety of nicknames but was very recognisable as 'the tallest cowboy'. He grew up on a ranch, then went on tour, was in several movies and even went to the White House. He tried to enlist in WWI but was turned down 'cos the military thought he'd be too tall for the trenches and an 'easy target'. But that meant he survived to be in this fic, lol.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> If you're interested in sideshows and the weird rivalries/discrimination between the legitimate Big Top performers and 'oddities', I highly recommend the 1932 feature film _Freaks_ (dir. Todd Browning). It's period-appropriate and will be mentioned later in the fic because it used a lot of professional sideshow performers instead of 'normal' actors. This means the acting's not exactly Oscar-worthy, but it's a really good little hour-long movie: you get romance, a bit of comedy, a murder plot and revenge. Its banquet scene is one of the most famous scenes in cinema history. And the girls' fashions are really cute :)  
>  The film was very controversial when it came out because it was so shocking to audiences to see real 'freaks' onscreen, as there was a lot of prejudice against disability in those days. It was banned in many countries, but actually it's very sweet 'cos it shows such people doing everyday things like laundry and dating. Anyway, these days it's received a lot of awards and you can easily find it online.
> 
> This chapter's song is _'Call Of The Freaks'_ , performed by Luis Russell And His Orchestra in 1929 :)
> 
> Thanks as usual for reading, and thank you for the comments on the first chapter, I really appreciate hearing your thoughts and it's very encouraging!


	3. Pack Up Your Sins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong misses Seunghyun with every bit of his libido, and finally gets some sweet relief.

The summer settled into a never-ending string of overnight hauls: setup, housework, greasepaint, a stolen kiss with Seunghyun; then the show, tear-down and clear-out. The landscape changed bewilderingly fast; the only constant was the train.

There were memorable episodes, of course. One even got worldwide coverage, when fourteen of the elephants managed to get loose as they were stopped at Cranbrook in British Columbia and roamed all over the damn countryside[5]. That caused some panic, of course, but also plenty of excitement as the entire Circus and half the town went out searching. Jiyong and Seunghyun conveniently got lost and spent a delicious afternoon by a woodland stream, ‘til one of the young bulls lumbered past and they had to get dressed and go find a handler. This was how Jiyong had fantasized his life would be, as he’d packed his few belongings at thirteen and left home for the first and final time: travel and adventure. He’d just never imagined all the things that would happen between then and now.

They’d crossed the border back into the States and were midway on the jump to Seattle when they had some less pleasant excitement: the train got raided.

“…What is it?” asked Jiyong blearily, falling out of his tiny bunk as his companions glared out the window and rushed around the car. He knew they were scheduled to stop for supplies near Tacoma, but it was early and wasn’t like he needed to do anything so he’d planned to sleep through it – but not with this din, all this shouting outside and doors slamming.

“Raid!” called the Skeleton.

“What, are we being hijacked?” The window was shoved open and Jiyong heard glass smashing on the ground outside.

“Prohis,” Timtam said shortly, to the sound of more glass all down the line. Jiyong picked himself up sharpish: _that_ kinda raid! As he got himself together the door banged open and a man in police uniform burst into the car brandishing a badge and nightstick.

“All right you lot, up against the bunks!” The cop got a good look at the car he’d chosen to bust and his expression turned both fascinated and disgusted. “Drop the hooch!” he told the Fat Man, who did; the bottle rolled along the floor toward him. Everyone obediently lined up along the wall, Jiyong included. He wasn’t exactly scared, only apprehensive ‘cos he didn’t know how this went: in all his time at the House it’d never been raided – Mr. Insull had seen to that with his connections – and in the closed world of the Circus Jiyong had almost forgotten about Prohibition.

“Got anything?” Another man entered the car, this one dressed in the standard Federal Agent getup: suit, long overcoat, trilby. Jiyong had never seen a real ‘Prohi’ before, but he’d heard enough about them: some people called them killjoys, others respected them for attempting to handle the organized gangs. Right now Jiyong wasn’t thrilled to see one. The cop handed the bottle of liquor to the Prohibition agent.

“Reckon the rest’s gone out the window,” he said. Neither man looked surprised.

“Okay, any of you freaks wanna own up to this?” demanded the Prohi. Jiyong glanced around: the Cirkies all maintained a sullen silence; he could feel their resentment, and sensed that it wasn’t only about the booze but about an outsider entering their space and trying to govern it. The man in the suit sighed. “Right, give ‘em all a formal warning – you get a peep out of anyone, book him.” The cop waited ‘til he’d left, then glared and began to give them a stern speech that sounded like he was reciting it by heart; Jiyong didn’t understand much of it, just the words ‘Volstead Act’. When he was done he conducted a search, found three more bottles and confiscated them.

“Asshole,” muttered Timtam once he’d left. “He’s gonna enjoy his Saturday night.”

“Isn’t he meant to destroy them?” asked Sky High from up near the ceiling.

“Yeah, right.” Everyone returned to the windows to stare out, some to mourn the wasted liquor smashed on the far side of the tracks and others to goggle at what was happening on the platform. Jiyong saw more cops and agents, and a truly surprising number of bottles and even crates being stacked outside the train: he guessed it’d traveled with them from Canada, which had much more sensible laws regarding spirits. Where’d they been putting it all?! he wondered, impressed.

He spotted Seunghyun slipping carefully along the platform toward the sideshow car, and such was the hubbub no-one seemed to care when he joined them inside. Timtam was still bemoaning the fate of his bottles; one or two of Jiyong’s bunkmates gave Seunghyun a glance as if to say ‘ah, _that’s_ your man’, but otherwise ignored him.

“You okay?” asked Seunghyun, pulling himself up on the top bunk beside Jiyong.

“Yeah, they just gave us a warning: there was loads stashed in here, I didn’t even know!”

“Same,” said Seunghyun. “It’s gonna be hard for them to actually arrest anyone, thank God – no-one’s owning up and they can’t book _all_ of us.” His jaw tightened as he saw two of the African-American canvasmen in handcuffs. “…Although it’s pretty damn obvious who they’d pick to take the fall.” He looked extremely angry at the prejudice he had always resented raising its head within their realm; Jiyong set a gentle hand on his bicep, he didn’t want his Tabi losing that famous temper with the Fuzz around.

“They’ve been doin’ this every once in a while since that dumb law came in,” Ed informed them. “Terrell’s gonna get a slap on the wrist, but that’s his job. They just like messin’ with Cirkies and the train’s an easy target.” Seunghyun curled his lip disapprovingly: he of all of them _would_ resent the Prohis, thought Jiyong; the older man was probably the one person in the whole Circus who could accurately be called a bootlegger – back in Chicago, anyway.

“What’s going on now?” Jiyong squinted out of the window as one of the women’s cars a way down the track disgorged several shapely young ladies in nightwear. They looked like they were arguing with the Feds, and there was Terrell hurrying down the platform toward them with a couple of ‘patches’ – presentable roustabouts whose job it was to smooth things over with the public when it looked like a fight was gunna break out. They all began gesticulating.

“Ah,” said Ed, now sounding a bit tickled, “that’ll be the cooch show.”

“The _what_?” The Ostrich sniggered at Jiyong.

“You didn’t never notice that tent out back behind the sideshow, the one that’s only open at night?”

“I guess?” Seunghyun looked at the smaller man and shrugged.

“Never heard the talker sellin’ its charms to the single men and respectable husbands?”

“Oh!” said Jiyong, remembering those comments about attractions that were _too much_ for ladies and children. “That’s what he meant! What is it, burlesque?”[6]

“So I hear,” Ed told him. “It’s s’posed to be pretty saucy – enough that some of those girls’ activities could get ‘em a night in the cooler!”

“Wow.” Jiyong leaned his chin on his forearms and watched the women snap answers at the officers. They were all very attractive, no wonder the Feds were hassling them. He wondered if there _were_ extra services being offered in some private corner of the Circus after the Big Top show let out. He wouldn’t be surprised: Jiyong knew better than anyone how marketable a holiday atmosphere could be when it came to getting men to part with their scratch. Why shouldn’t those performers make a little extra on the side? He ventured a glance at Seunghyun, who was looking all stiff and prudish, it was everso cute. Did he think it would upset Jiyong to be reminded of his former profession?

“It’s okay, look,” observed Ed, pointing out of the window. “Seems like Terrell’s just gettin’ a fine. We’ll be rollin’ out again soon.”

“Yeah, rollin’ out _dry_ ,” lamented Timtam from the other side of the car. “Those fuckers, I’m gonna…” His threats subsided into inaudible grumbles. Jiyong leaned against Seunghyun on the dwarf’s bunk and sighed with relief that they’d escaped so lightly from their run-in with the Law. What an eventful year this was becoming! He’d have so much to write home about.

 

* * *

 

After the raid things settled down and the same old trek resumed. Jiyong felt they’d now had enough experience that they could properly be called troupers – maybe next season they’d get a bit of respect. His sideshow act was doing okay and he was beginning to daydream about what came next: he was getting bored with telling his fake life story, and he’d never get promoted if he didn’t come up with something new next year. He knew what he wanted: the glamor and beguiling lights of the Big Top. What path would he have to take to get there? He discussed the next step at length with Seunghyun, but neither of them had many bright ideas. It was all very well for Tabi, he was getting to use his carefully learned skills every performance, _and_ he got to hobnob with the real kinkers. Jiyong was pleased for him, and also envious.

He was dwelling on it again as he hung around the sideshow tent after the matinée; Seunghyun was busy doing something technical with the Boss Canvasman in the Big Top, and Jiyong was bored. He sat on his cushion in his dressing gown and wondered how he could give his career some pizazz. Across from him the willowy Bearded Lady was playing her small piano in her booth. She was maybe Creole and always dressed very nicely; the only incongruous thing was the silky black beard that fell to the neckline of her crepe dress. There were various feminine, domestic objects scattered around: a powder compact, a delicate tea cup, some wildflowers in a vase. Jiyong guessed it was to offset the one feature people came to see and make the beard stand out even more in comparison to her ladylike self. As Jiyong listened she switched from classical twiddling and began picking out the notes to a popular Gershwin jazz ballad. Starved for the kind of music he’d loved so much in Chicago, he found himself humming and then murmuring along.

“That’s a pretty little voice you’ve got,” called Flora after a minute, and the piano cut out. Jiyong quit singing, surprised: Flora was a bit of a queen in the sideshow court, by rumor the fourth generation of a famous circus family, and thus far she hadn’t had much use for a Korean Tattooed Boy.

“Thanks,” he said, and ventured a smile.

“Can you go higher?” she asked, looking at him speculatively.

“Oh, sure. Much.”

“Scoot over here.” Jiyong approached across the crushed grass. The bearded woman eyed him over the top of the upright, then resettled herself in a rustle of skirts and touched her slim fingers to the keys. The opening to a familiar upbeat number made him grin wider: a sister duet from a few years back, _Pack Up Your Sins And Go To The Devil_. Flora gave him a nod and he took the first verse – it was high but he could swing it. She came in with the second and he joined her again in the chorus; her harmonies were on point. Jiyong hadn’t really sung for a long time and was almost shocked how good it felt. Once it was done she leaned back and shut the piano lid.

“Want some advice, kid?”

“Yes ma’am!” said Jiyong, because who’d turn down lessons from a top act? Flora gave a delicate snort.

“Use every tool you have. You’ve got a sweet set of pipes; I’ve a piano. Why not get up an act with me?”

“…Seriously?” Jiyong felt his mouth curl into the real smile, the one too gummy and genuine to be a tool. “Of course!!”

“I’ll speak to Zack,” she said. “They can rig us a double booth, and if it’s working by the end of the season we might get a stage spot next year. And another thing…” She took Jiyong’s wrist and tugged him nearer, and before he knew it her small cinnamon-colored hands were on his hips, his waist, sweeping up to his shoulders over his robe. He blinked: he recognized desire when he saw it, and there was none in her – only professional interest.

“What?” he inquired, curious.

“You know why gillies[7] come to visit the freakshow? – Pardon me, the ‘marvelous human prodigies’.”

“…To see something weird?”

“Mm. Right: to see how strange the outside is – and feel more satisfaction that they live safely _inside_.”

“I get that,” Jiyong agreed; he knew all about the lure of the exotic, and how to spin it.

“I don’t doubt it,” she said, with a pointed raise of her eyebrow. Jiyong wondered if she knew about him somehow – how he used to live and how he’d played his body and his own foreignness for hard cash. It was all the same, he supposed: the House, here… “Point is,” Flora continued, tapping him sharply in the thigh, “you want to keep your audience guessing. Zack has this idea that rubes pay for the sideshow because they want to know the truth – want to see these impossible bodies for themselves, compare them to the banners and the talkers’ spiel and find out _what we have._ Strip away the privacy, learn the grotesque _science_ of us, and feel all the more normal in comparison.”

“That’s why he pays ‘born’ freaks more than made ones,” said Jiyong slowly.

“Sure,” said Flora, and stroked one of the ribbons in her beard. “Anyone can eat lightbulbs or get themselves tattooed.” She waited a beat to make sure he was listening. “…But in the end I’m not sure Zack’s right: I think the audience wants some mystery. It’s scarier for them that way – and big scares make big bucks.”

“How does that apply to me?” Jiyong asked. “I got no sideshow pedigree, just some odd ink.”

“Easy.” Flora drew him down to perch on the stool beside her; his head reached only a little above hers. “You’re billed as the Tattooed Boy – but I’ve watched them watching you, and people aren’t sure _what_ you are: too small, too pretty and _other_ for your average Midwest farmer to believe you could be the same as him.”

“Oh, _that_.” Jiyong thought of his old clients, the Palmers and even McGurn, and how they’d liked to see him in skirts.

“You don’t have to do a drag act,” said the older woman perceptively. “There’s enough guys on the European circuit doing that. But you oughta play up that ‘ _don’t know’_.”[8]

“I don’t see how; I practically show my all twice a day.”

“Use your initiative.” Flora tapped him again. “You protect your modesty, don’t you? Switch out those undershorts for some nice French knickers; and a bit of sheer drapery around the chest area would hide just enough to keep people guessing – you’ve already got the perfect flapper body. You know how to use cosmetics?”

“Very well.”

“I figured.” Flora bunged a finger beneath Jiyong’s chin and tilted his face to the light. “You barely need it, but a bit of paint would show you off beautifully. Do all that and use that sweet voice for me, and you’ll be the most charming mystery in the tent: are you really a boy? A girl? Something else? They’ll be dying to find out – frightening but _titillating_. That’s something few of us can manage.”

Jiyong thought about this, but not for long: he knew it would work, knew it ‘cos people were the same everywhere whether they were Chicago millionaires or Florida hicks. He’d thought to leave all that behind: the allure he could create with his body, the lust he could spark with his face and mannerisms – he’d never thought to need those skills again. Wasn’t that what he’d told Seunghyun?

“Why’re you helping me?” he asked at last. “How’s it benefit _you_?” Flora chucked him under the chin and budged him off the stool. She smiled coolly.

“Attention,” she explained. “They’ll all be looking at you – and if you’re singing next to _me_ instead of sitting on your lonesome across the tent, I get an extra share. How striking we’d be together!” Jiyong nodded. The smile warmed up a bit. “In any case,” said Flora, “I like to have a project.”

“…All right,” said Jiyong, not for the first time blessing whatever it was about him that made older women want to educate him. “Let’s do it!”

“Good boy.” She let out a musical laugh. “Or whatever you want to be.” Jiyong laughed as well, and in spite of what he’d told Seunghyun found himself looking forward to a bit of shine. He just wondered what his lover would have to say about it.

 

“That again?” said Seunghyun absently before roll-out that night; he was scrubbing at the top part of his face, the half that hadn’t been covered with a scarf, slogging to remove the chemicals, dust and whatever else his job involved him getting covered in. There weren’t any luxurious bathing facilities for non-performing male Cirkies: it was a bucket on the far side of the car and a bit of mirror for shaving. “You don’t mind? I thought you were done with all the paint and powder.”

“I don’t mind.” Jiyong passed the soap; Seunghyun screwed up his lovely eyes and lathered his face, grunting at the sting. The smaller man took the cloth and gently rinsed him clean, ignoring the looks from the riggers who shared Seunghyun’s living space. Once Seunghyun could open his eyes again Jiyong got a smile, the small, private smile just for him.

“If you’re fine with it,” said Seunghyun, yawning, “I’m not gonna complain – so long as you’re happy.”

“Yeah,” Jiyong replied softly, fingers covertly stroking Seunghyun’s ear because he couldn’t kiss him here. The older man leaned into his touch, hungry for any intimate moment. Jiyong tamped down a pang of desire – small chance of satisfying that, not ‘til the next unguarded baggage car or empty lot – and hoped his lover’s fine mood would hold.

 

* * *

 

“Ready?” asked Flora. Jiyong nodded: he wasn’t nervous, though it’d only been a few days since the older woman had sprung this idea on him. They’d worked out a small repertoire of songs, some duets and a couple of numbers in Korean – she liked the idea of that Oriental lure. Flora had gone and been dictatorial at Herman the sideshow manager ‘til he agreed to give them a booth together for the day, to see if it worked, while Jiyong went to Wardrobe and bribed them to create him something pretty that’d hide just enough: a pair of tailored peach satin shorts with a feminine flutter at the thighs, and some kinda sheer halterneck in shimmering gauze above them. Seunghyun had been given a sneak preview, and his reaction was all the feedback Jiyong needed. The final touch had been some makeup he’d borrowed from the women’s dressing room – he’d get more in his own colors in the next big town.

“Heeey, Princess!” called the exotic Snake Lady across the tent. “ _Smart_ new look!” Jiyong blushed and gave her a wave. The other sideshow acts had given him nothing but eye-rolls and knowing glances, and he guessed he was pretty much meeting their expectations, as if he’d been bound to show his true colors eventually. But he didn’t care, he felt great! He hoped the audience would feel the same.

It was one of the best and most oddly intense matinées Jiyong had experienced so far. He and Flora sat back to back and people came to stare at them; they stayed to hear the music. The stares of the crowd conveyed interest, shock, and a whole bunch more confusion than when Jiyong had been performing alone: the double whammy of his and Flora’s ambiguity was a massive draw. Some of the rubes didn’t like it, he could tell, but other than a few bluenose mothers with their children they remained to gawk all the same. Dislike and suspicion could be a powerful attraction, Jiyong knew; the weirdest oddities got the biggest audiences, and Flora had been right, they _worked_ : the young people enjoyed their jazz tunes and Jiyong’s ‘foreign’ singing, others were dying to ask them questions during the breaks between numbers. Men especially stayed to stare, as if their brains couldn’t process what they were seeing or how they oughta react to it. The attention was dizzying.

They did it again that night, and if anything the stares were more acute. They were midway through a swinging duet when Jiyong spotted Terrell on his daily walk through the attractions. He wondered if the big man had been informed of the new double act, or if they weren’t important enough to be worth it. A minute later Terrell stopped his complacent stroll, clocked Jiyong’s new look through the rubbernecking crowd, and visibly sighed; that answered _that_ question. Jiyong hit the high note and winked at him; the manager shook his head.

“Like it, Boss?” Jiyong asked once the song was over and the rubes were shuffling along to gawk at Sky High and whichever little person was partnering him tonight. Terrell drew hard on his cigar.

“Don’t cause more trouble than you can help,” he advised.

“It’s going pretty well,” put in Flora as she reapplied her lipstick and passed the tube to Jiyong to do the same. “They can’t take their eyes off us.” Terrell glanced at the furtive shapes of a few customers who’d lingered and were pretending not to look at them.

“So I see. Well.” He puffed the cigar up a storm and walked on. Flora smiled approvingly at the younger man. Jiyong grinned back. She nodded at the growing crowd and touched the piano keys: one of his Korean numbers.

“All right, sweetheart – show ‘em what you’ve got.”

 

* * *

 

As their sideshow act grew in popularity Jiyong found the more ambivalent stares having a different effect on him than merely boosting his vanity: they were exciting him in a more _personal_ way, too. Those new gazes were so familiar, drawing him back to a time when men had looked at him ‘cos he was beautiful and not only because he was a freak. Jiyong had thought himself well rid of that when he’d gotten his tattoos and left the House, but now…now those looks were having the unfortunate effect of heating him all over in a way that _demanded_ satisfying. There was only one man who could do that, and to Jiyong’s frustration it was as hard to get alone time with him as ever.

One matinée had got him particularly het-up, the admiring stares almost matching the horrified ones. As soon as the Big Top show was done Jiyong tugged a peaked cap over his face to stop the crowds of exiting rubes recognizing him and trotted off to find Seunghyun. He took a turn round the back yard and cookhouse but didn’t see him, so he must still be in the Big Top. Jiyong wasn’t meant to go in there without a reason, but wasn’t this reason enough?! He wanted the bigger man’s hands on him, wanted to see the praise and desire shining from Seunghyun’s lovely face, wanted to be admired at close range and admire his lover’s body in return. He’d gone pink just thinking about it.

He ducked into the enormous tent through a side flap and spotted him over at the special stage by Center Ring, fiddling with his fireworks and surrounded by people. Jiyong pulled a frustrated face and scurried along behind the tiers of seats to get closer. How could he attract his man’s attention without getting a telling-off from some kinker? He looked closer and saw how absorbed they all were in conversation. To his surprise his Tabi was at the center of it all: Seunghyun was laughing, talking animatedly, and the other techs and riggers were grinning too. Even a cute little trapeze artist was giggling. Seunghyun looked pleased.

Jiyong switched direction and wandered away, out of the big Top and toward the menagerie; there was no way he’d get Seunghyun’s attention right now. There was a slight tightness in his chest, and as he walked he tried to figure out what it meant. Thwarted desire? Most certainly. Jealousy? He didn’t think so – that wasn’t his way, no matter how pretty the girl laughing up at Seunghyun had been. It was maybe closer to curiosity; and, if so, there could be no harm in satisfying it.

“How come you’re so different at work?” he asked Seunghyun later before the evening show, out behind the cookhouse where they’d snuck with their food while everyone else was sitting at the segregated tables inside. It was hard to synchronize even their mealtimes now, but Jiyong was determined to have _some_ kinda contact today.

“What’s that?” said Seunghyun with his mouth full; he had one arm around Jiyong’s waist and was balancing his plate on his knee. He looked content and happy being next to him – but not the same as that afternoon.

“When you were with the Big Top riggers earlier,” Jiyong explained. “You were setting up your kit and you were the life of the party: they were all laughing and you looked so…sparkling.” Seunghyun quit chewing and gave him a puzzled look. “Even with that cutie from the trapeze you were joking. I’ve never seen you like that before, not at the House, not even alone with me. Why not?”

“…I never thought about it,” said the older man after a minute. “I was just…having a good time. No wonder you never saw me like that in the House.”

“I know, but why not with me?” It was getting too dark to spot the subtleties in Seunghyun’s big eyes, but his grip on Jiyong’s waist turned even more affectionate.

“Being with you is serious business,” he informed the smaller man. Jiyong smacked his leg.

“You mean I’m no fun!”

“No,” said Seunghyun, now with a hint of a chuckle. “Don’t get huffy.” He sighed and drew him closer. “You really don’t get it?” Jiyong shook his head. “It’s because I’m still _so damn amazed_ that I’m with you – that you could love me,” Seunghyun told him, his voice dropping to a deep and earnest rumble. “Every day. And now with the train keeping us apart…well, when I see you it takes my breath away.” Jiyong saw him smile. “And every bit of wit just leaves my head.”

“…Oh!” said Jiyong, and couldn’t help preening at the older man’s words of praise – Seunghyun could be _smooth_ when he wanted to!

“Serious business,” repeated Seunghyun. Jiyong experienced that wash of affection, that stab of longing he’d never felt for anyone else. It was so sweet he removed Seunghyun’s dinner from his knee, set it aside, then leaned across and kissed him right there. Seunghyun’s hands rose to cup his cheeks, breath hitching as he returned the caress. A wave of laughter from inside the cookhouse swelled at some joke or other, and Seunghyun drew back cautiously. “Not here,” he said, gruff enough that Jiyong could practically hear his arousal.

“Goddammit.” Jiyong peered around, past the sea of tents and away from the train tracks: there was a stretch of scrubland and then a bit of patchy woods. “You still hungry?”

“Yeah,” said Seunghyun. “And you know what for.” Jiyong smirked.

“Come on, then, quick. We’ll have _dessert_ al fresco.” His lover gave him one of those wide-eyed scandalized looks that Jiyong could recognize even in the dark; then he nodded. Jiyong grinned wider, took his hand, and pulled him toward the trees.

 

* * *

 

It was different with Seunghyun than with anyone else, thought Jiyong later, and not only ‘cos he _loved_ Seunghyun. Fucking for pay had needed a decent amount of forethought, especially in the House, because what the client was buying was a fantasy: the bed had to be pristine and you yourself perfect – no complaints or refusals, clean and yielding and fragrant. Spotless as though you’d never done anything but wait for that person to arrive. With Seunghyun none of that seemed to matter: he didn’t care if Jiyong came to him sweaty from the airless sideshow tent or smelling of the menagerie, didn’t mind if they stopped in the middle ‘cos Jiyong needed a piss. Sometimes it was Seunghyun who got distracted by an episode tattooed on some part of Jiyong’s body, and they’d have to pause while the younger man told him the full story. Still, Seunghyun embraced him as if every touch was a revelation, and Jiyong found that pretty damn enchanting. Of course, part of it nowadays was down to the rarity value. He found himself looking forward to the home run and end of season more than he’d ever believed possible: come November he and Seunghyun could choose to stay in Peru with the Circus or head back to Gibtown and their little van and find something to do during the mild Florida winter. Whatever it was, they’d be together. Jiyong couldn’t _wait_.

In the meantime his frustration built. As September passed into October the Cirkies who had to share cars started getting cabin fever, and Jiyong was no exception: he began snapping back at Timtam, resenting the noise and smelly feet of his bunkmates and the way Ed rehearsed in the car. This was normal, said everyone: the last month or two of the season were when things got fractious. There were more fights within the Circus, and between Cirkies and rubes; this was when the conciliatory patches did their job, and when Terrell and the Equestrian Director and all the other managers worked the hardest: they were the points of complaint for everybody’s beef. Jiyong knew they couldn’t help with _his_ problem: that he wanted his man all to himself, by himself, without interruption. There was nothing to do but put up with it and spend as little time as possible on the train.

The California fall weather helped make this slightly more pleasant: every day he’d grab a lemonade, find some shade, and take himself away from his goddamn aggravating sideshow friends for an hour. Today Jiyong was sitting a little distance from the visiting farrier from Long Beach, watching the liberty horses – who performed synchronized ballets without any rider or rein at all – get shod. They were so beautiful, and perfectly behaved, but he didn’t dare get closer ‘cos even the regular baggage horses didn’t like him and he wasn’t keen to get in trouble with these expensive creatures. As he sat there on a patchy strip of grass he saw the resident ‘strongman’ wander up, pass a couple of coins to the farrier, and receive a bunch of discarded horseshoes. Jiyong had never spoken to him; he had a pretty good spot in the Big Top lineup, enough to get a share of car to himself – and whatever ballet girl he had on his arm at the time. But he’d seen bits of his act from a distance and it looked frankly unbelievable

“Hey, kid,” said the big man, and to Jiyong’s surprise he walked up to him. “You’re with the oddities, right?” Jiyong nodded. “Galen Gough,” the strongman introduced himself; he had an accent that was maybe Kentucky and was younger than Jiyong had figured. He gave the Korean man a laconic grin: good-humored, and an air of being perennially pleased with himself.

“Jiyong.” Gough nodded as Jiyong raised an arm to show his tattoos. He held out the horseshoes – his hands were enormous.

“Pick one.” Puzzled but having nothing better to do, Jiyong pointed to a heavy loop of iron that must’ve belonged to one of the Clydesdales. Gough set the others down in the dust and held it up in both hands. Jiyong felt his mouth slowly drop open as the man took a deep breath and began to bend the thick metal, forcing it into a new shape. Even beneath his shirt Jiyong could see the bulge of his muscles, so defined he might as well be naked; the fabric strained over his biceps. The smaller man glanced down at his own arms, and not for the first time reminded himself that if he wanted a shot at the Big Top someday he’d actually have to do some exercise. Gough grunted in satisfaction, and when Jiyong looked back up he saw to his astonishment that the horseshoe had become a perfect heart.

“Wow…!” he said, not trying to hide his amazement. Gough wasn’t even panting.

“There you go.” He tossed the horseshoe into Jiyong’s lap with another of those grins. “Give it to your sweetheart.” He scooped up the rest of his haul and strolled off. Jiyong took the heart in both hands and tugged so hard his eyes started watering: nothing. He shook his head, put it in his pocket, and decided the Sells-Floto strongman had gained a fan. He also decided that encounter had been a bit too exciting, his observation of Gough a little too admiring: he _had_ to get laid again soon.

 

* * *

 

At last, at long last the Circus steamed into Little Rock – their ‘home sweet home’, the final show of the season. Suddenly everyone’s mood was bright and bouncing again. Jiyong was so relieved he practically sang his heart out in the evening sideshow, and when he ran to watch the closing Big Top performance he saw Seunghyun tear off his face guard after the crescendo of fireworks and laugh out loud, bowing to all four corners of the tent with a rare bit of personal showmanship. Tear-down happened faster than ever after the Wild West show, and come roll-out every occupied car was swinging and its inhabitants mostly hammered.

It was a debauched group of Cirkies that arrived back in Peru at the end of the home run on November 2; they had traveled over seventeen thousand miles all told, and now even the animals seemed to have hangovers. Immediately people began leaving: many went home for the winter, others to work theaters or carnivals or do manual labor wherever they could get it. Some stopped here in Peru at the winter quarters and waited for spring. But every kinker and tech made a visit to the office car to see the general agent and Terrell, and sign next season’s contract if they could. Jiyong and Seunghyun lined up too – everyone needed the certainty of knowing they had a job to come back to. Terrell nodded Seunghyun through without question, and sighed at Jiyong but signed his contract too.

“Thank God,” said Seunghyun before they separated to pack their things. They’d decided to join Timtam and the old crew and head on back to Florida; Jiyong didn’t think much of the Indiana chill.

“Yeah,” Jiyong agreed. “Now we just gotta find something to do for four months.” After the elation of the home run he’d begun to think about their savings and how he was gunna keep sending money home – of course they wouldn’t be paid in the off season. He wasn’t exactly worried, but if he couldn’t find a winter job he would be.

“We’ll get something.” Seunghyun gave his hand a covert squeeze and Jiyong smiled up at him: he sounded calm and confident. “Now go pack.”

“Timtam said there’s a truck for the station in an hour!” the younger man called after him. Just a couple more days and he’d have Seunghyun all to himself again.

He and Seunghyun joined the group who’d be taking the Florida route together: Timtam and a couple of his small friends, Edgar and his brothers, a few female kinkers. The people with animals would make their own way; Jiyong and co. were taking a passenger train – such luxury! The older man sidled up to Jiyong; their hands touched.

“Ya don’t have to act like old maids now,” Edgar informed them as he swung himself up into the bed of the feed truck. “Season’s over, you can be as cute as ya like.”

“Just like that?” said Jiyong, laughing.

“Just like that: no rules off-season! Fraternize all you please.”

“This is so bizarre,” grumbled Seunghyun with a shake of his head. He helped Jiyong into the truck and took a seat on the rough boards beside him.

“That’s the Circus,” said Timtam, and toasted their weird, wonderful world with a long pull from his flask. Jiyong slid his arms around Seunghyun and smiled. He was gunna make the long winter _very_ satisfying.

 

* * *

 

 

Florida was warm and damp and sunshiny. On all their travels Jiyong had never found a place that smelled quite like it, and as they rolled into Gibtown he felt himself materially relax.

“Let’s go pick up the van,” said Seunghyun as they climbed off the truck in the main street. He was smiling, the friendly Southern sun thawing the stiffness in their joints from the long train ride. He took Jiyong’s hand. The younger man was pleased to find that the shyness his Tabi had shown last year about advertising their relationship seemed to have evaporated; maybe the months of separation had been a _good_ thing. Still, he was glad they were over now.

“How’s the circus life treating y’all, sugar?” asked the store owner while Seunghyun was out back attempting to crank-start the old bread van.

“Oh, Miss Valerie, it was _amazing_!” gushed Jiyong, leaning on the counter with an armful of groceries while she fetched his cigarettes.

“Those tattoos go over well?”

“Yes ma’am!”

“And Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome? I recall he was a touch nervy when you first came.”

“Yeah, he’s great at it,” said Jiyong happily. “Although I gotta admit the last month or two’ve been a _tiny_ bit fraught.” She dropped him a knowing look and he grinned. “But I’ll sort that out before long.”

“That’ll be four bucks, darlin’,” the older woman told him as the sound of a reluctant engine and Seunghyun’s triumphant exclamation reached their ears. She pulled her crossword book toward her. “Come get your fortune told again sometime.”

“I will,” promised Jiyong, scooping up his shopping. “Real soon: I gotta find a job!” The van’s horn blared and he hurried out.

“Okay?” Seunghyun was looking pleased with himself.

“Okay.” Jiyong hopped in. “You wanna park up by Timtam like last year?”

“Not yet,” said the older man, and gave him a look that sizzled all the way down to his toes. “Let’s go somewhere quiet.” So they did just that.

“They’re all gunna know what we’re up to,” Jiyong warned him; Seunghyun had chosen a remote green spot by the river where the afternoon sun danced on the lazy water.

“Don’t care.” Seunghyun threw open the rear doors and unwrapped the bedding to shake it out and air it. “I wanna see you in the light.” Jiyong sat down in the back with his legs dangling and gave him a sweet, inviting smile; that was exactly what he wanted too. With a quick look around to check for any opportunistic locals lurking in the foliage, Seunghyun cupped the smaller man’s face in both hands, leaned down and kissed him. It was _slow_ , so slow that Jiyong, who felt he’d being going without for months, made an impatient sound and reached up to grab him by the collar. “No, let me,” Seunghyun entreated him against his lips. Jiyong relented and closed his eyes, reining himself in and allowing his expertise to do the talking: Tabi wouldn’t be able to last long against _that_.

“I thought…I was gunna go nuts,” he admitted, after a long minute spent speaking eloquently with delicate brushes of his tongue against Seunghyun’s. The older man rumbled an agreement, thumbs caressing his jaw. Jiyong didn’t mind the calluses on Seunghyun’s skin at all, rather the reverse: the roughness mingled with the gentle touches excited him and highlighted the strength in those hands. He bit down just enough on Seunghyun’s lip to draw out a moan, then bent his head to take the bigger man’s index finger between his teeth, looking up at him through his lashes. Seunghyun gasped and his huge eyes flashed. Jiyong let his tongue trace the outline of his lover’s digit, but if he’d thought it’d make him get a move on he was mistaken: Seunghyun had taken hold of his pointed chin and was kissing him softly all over his face, his lips against the corner of Jiyong’s mouth as he gradually trailed lower. Jiyong couldn’t suppress a shiver of anticipation.

“Show some restraint,” muttered Seunghyun as the younger man’s hand went for his pants; Jiyong could hear his amusement. “You’re meant to be an expert, you’re acting like a teenager!”

“…I wanna have you, that’s all!” replied Jiyong after another too-leisurely kiss. He could feel the flush rising in his face and throat and knew how damn good he must look; why was Tabi refusing to satisfy him?

“Me too.” Seunghyun grinned, his handsome face full of adoration. “…But I want to take my time, and I wanna look at you properly. It’s been almost a year since I was allowed to do both.” So saying he slowly removed the shirt suspenders from Jiyong’s shoulders and unbuttoned his collar; his fingers dipped beneath its edge to stroke the smaller man’s clavicle. Jiyong sighed and let his legs part invitingly, and then Seunghyun was sinking to his knees in the grass. He continued to undo Jiyong’s buttons, teasing the skin beneath; then he pulled the shirt open and tugged it off Jiyong’s shoulders to reveal the milky-gold flesh. “Feels good?” asked Seunghyun huskily as the breeze touched his bare skin. Jiyong nodded, his breath starting to come unsteady, anticipation and the caress of the wind hardening his small nipples. Seunghyun brushed a finger over one of the stiff nubs and he exhaled shakily.

“ _Yes_ , baby…” whispered Jiyong. Seunghyun had leaned up and was kissing him now, agonizingly slow, from his throat down his sternum, pausing to trace his tongue over his favorite tattoos and pulling back every so often to simply admire him. Jiyong sank his hands into the older man’s hair; it glinted bronze and copper in the late afternoon sun, and those eyes when they gazed up at him reflected the same warm colors. He removed his shirt the rest of the way, hoping it’d encourage Seunghyun: he was hard already and Seunghyun’s clever mouth hadn’t even got to his chest yet!

“Mmm.” Guessing what Jiyong wanted by the arch of his back, his lover bent his neck again and breathed gently over Jiyong’s left nipple; for a full thirty seconds he didn’t even touch him, and when his lips at last made contact the smaller man was squirming and pouting like he knew no-one else could. Seunghyun nipped at the taut flesh, just enough to hurt, and Jiyong quit wriggling and instead pulled that handsome head harder against his chest; Seunghyun chuckled but set both hands to his waist and tugged him even closer, close enough to feel his erection through the cloth. He returned to his ministrations.

Jiyong squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the sensations; when he opened them again at another hint of teeth he saw a suspicious blob duck behind a bush at a distance.

“Hey…!” he told Seunghyun, half laughing and half frustrated ‘cos he knew this would put his very private lover right off. “There’s someone over there thinks this is a peep show!” Seunghyun looked up immediately, but his hands didn’t leave their tight grip on Jiyong’s hips. Instead he twisted round to glare at the anonymous pink blob and yelled:

“ _Fuck off_!!” The head emerged again and a nondescript figure legged it back toward the village. All Jiyong could tell was that it was female. “Honestly!” said Seunghyun, watching it go with some amazement. “Who knew women were so dirty?”

“Tabi, sometimes you’re so naïve it makes me wanna eat you up…” Jiyong grasped him by the hair and pulled his head back round – he didn’t want anyone else getting his man’s attention right now! It was amazing enough that Seunghyun was still good to go: he really _must_ have missed this as badly as Jiyong.

“Not yet,” Seunghyun countered, and finally, finally ran his fingers over Jiyong’s erection. “First I’m gonna eat _you_.”

But before that, it turned out, he had to finish what he’d started. Jiyong was too aroused to count, but he estimated five more minutes on his left nipple and ten on his right, Seunghyun attacking him with lips and tongue, teeth and fingers and an almost scientific thoroughness. All through it he muttered muffled words in praise of Jiyong’s sweetness, his beauty, his whole sensuous self, and that got the younger man off almost as much as Seunghyun’s physical touch: there could be a whole host of voyeuristic ladies getting a free show right now, he was too gone to notice anymore. When Seunghyun eventually eased his shoes, pants and underwear off Jiyong was trembling all over and damn near ready to burst with love for this stubborn, marvelous person.

“Please, Tabi, _please_ …!” he begged after Seunghyun had spent an untold amount of time admiring his lower belly and inner thighs and pretty much every area but his cock. The bigger man smiled and made him say it again, then finally skimmed his fingers over the tip; at Jiyong’s shudder he took the head in his mouth. Jiyong felt a quick burst of heat that shot from his dick right up to his brain. He made a helpless noise, high and breathy, the kind Seunghyun loved; but the next moment the bastard grinned and let the head slip from his lips with a wet pop – dammit, that was one of Jiyong’s techniques, and so was that smile!

“…Fucking hell,” managed Jiyong as his lover’s fingers circled his balls and slipped between his buttocks. “I taught you…too well!”

“How d’you think I got to be a postgrad?” Seunghyun laughed his deep laugh when Jiyong playfully swatted him. “I’m an excellent student. And if you’re a good boy you’ll get to test me.” And he started over from the beginning. By the time he was ready to pay attention to Jiyong’s cock again the smaller man couldn’t even sit up: he simply fell onto the faded mattress and stared down at the top of Seunghyun’s head, watched his own thigh muscles contract as Seunghyun took pity on him and began to blow him for real.

Again Jiyong couldn’t say how long _that_ went on, but by the time Seunghyun had lost his cool enough to take his own clothes off the sun was going down. Now at last his Tabi was inside him, his strong, slim frame moving above and around and within him. It was as slow as everything else had been but Jiyong made himself go with it; instead of concentrating on how good it felt to have Seunghyun’s hard cock pushing against his sweet spots he focused on the small things: the dig of Seunghyun’s hipbones in the soft flesh of his thighs where he’d curled his tattooed limbs around him, the drops of sweat that quivered and fell from those lovely eyelashes to splash on Jiyong’s neck, the smells of the flowery oil and the river combined with the musk of sex. _This_ was what he’d missed, the openness and luxury of time, and the knowledge that they could do it again tonight, and tomorrow, and as often as they had the energy.

“…You’re nearly there, aren’t you,” he muttered, stretching up to press his cheek to Seunghyun’s; he could feel it in the controlled urgency of Seunghyun’s movements, the low moans of pleasure and effort as he held himself back. The bigger man nodded, skin burning against him. Jiyong wrapped both arms around his neck and dragged him down; he bent his legs further toward his chest without difficulty and nudged at Seunghyun until he wrapped both hands around Jiyong’s thighs and thrust into him harder. Jiyong cried out softly and heard it echoed by some creature in the distance; there was a skirl of cool wind and Seunghyun picked up speed.

“Touch yourself…” he told Jiyong ardently, kissing him. “I’m not gonna last much longer!” Jiyong slid a hand between their bodies and pumped his cock in time with his lover’s movements. His back was sliding against the mattress, the fabric of the sheet catching strands of his hair and growing dark with sweat as Seunghyun fucked him to completion. When it was done he lay there breathless, feeling the sticky slide of lubrication and semen along his thighs. He didn’t try to get up, Seunghyun wasn’t done kissing him, and now they didn’t have to deal with furtive cleanups or hurried exits.

“That,” said Jiyong, as Seunghyun played with his fingers, “was _very_ nice. Thank you, baby.” His partner took the hint and helped him up. They paced naked down to the river, where Seunghyun did a careful reconnaissance for alligators and other unwelcome wildlife. He nodded and Jiyong sat down on the bank and slid his legs in, yelping at the chill. He sank far enough into the water to let it wash him clean, then wiped the rest of the sweat off with a cloth. Seunghyun rinsed off too; when Jiyong emerged like a tattooed mermaid from the river the older man pulled him close and embraced him on the bank, shielding him from the approaching night cold. The grass was soft and mossy under their feet, late fall stars emerging above them. Jiyong rested his body against Seunghyun’s and breathed out: tomorrow he’d have to start thinking about his responsibilities again, but for tonight he was content to be a part of this paradise.

 

_(I'm too lazy to draw Jiyong's extra tattoos, so just use your imagination ^^;)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5It took six weeks to round up every single elephant while the Circus moved on – the last was a feisty female named Tillie (who’ll appear later in the fic) – and Sells-Floto was out a whopping $50,000 in missed shows and compensation for the chaos they caused, but it was reckoned to be British Columbia’s most exciting summer.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 6The charmingly-named ‘cooch shows’ were technically burlesque but often (unofficially) went further into sex work, and were one of the less family-friendly aspects of the American circus. They’d be advertised only to male customers. Legally speaking they were on shaky ground but that didn’t stop them![return to text]  
> 
> 
> 7I’ve tried to work most of the Circus lingo organically into the story, but if there’s something you’re unsure of or you just want to immerse yourself more in the subculture, there’s a great glossary of American Circus terms here: https://www.goodmagic.com/carny/c_a.htm [return to text]  
> 
> 
> 8Janet Davis (2002) says that the circus was one of the few places in American culture where non-normative genders, sexualities and disabilities could be played with and displayed. In 1926 a MtF tightrope walker called Babette became a sensation in Paris and was incredibly graceful and beautiful. Before that the ‘strong women’ and female acrobats really opened people’s eyes to how powerful women could be, and female circus performers were actively involved with and became symbols for the American suffragette movement when women were trying to get the vote.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> The title song this week is _'Pack Up Your Sins (And Go To The Devil)'_ by Irving Berlin.  
> 
> 
> Next chapter Jiyong gets an offer that'll really start to shake things up XD  
>  Thank you as always for reading!


	4. Everybody Wants A Key To My Cellar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys rejoin the Circus for the new season and each takes on an 'interesting' sideline...

That winter Jiyong found his taste for hard labor hadn’t improved any since they’d missed out on the Chicago run at the start of last season. He wished he could get by on scoring a position at the few carnivals that passed through Tampa in the holidays. He did get hired by one, and that was a week’s work showing his ink and telling his story; the agent also recommended him to another tiny sideshow in the immigrant area, Ybor City. Jiyong worked there weekend nights, when Cuban rum-runners and bootleggers from the Bahamas and Italian and Latino immigrants swelled the entertainment district on the waterfront ‘til it roared as loud as Chicago. But that alone wouldn’t pay the bills.

 _Dad really needs a new prosthetic_ , Dami had written him in November. _That leg’s giving him a lot of pain and it’s stopping him getting about – you can imagine what mood that puts him in._ Jiyong bit his lip as he read: he could. _I know Mom won’t ask you, she’s already worried about you. We’ll put in as much as we can but those fancy hospitals are expensive! If there’s anything you can do it’d really help._ And of course Jiyong wasn’t gunna let them down. Dami could lie if she had to and say it all came from her husband; the main thing was to make sure his father was okay.

It was mostly for this reason that Jiyong caved and got a day job at one of Ybor City’s many cigar factories. He hated it. He wasn’t skilled enough to do the delicate hand rolling at the classy Cuban-run outfits – that took training – so had to toil at one of the new mass-production factories packing boxes, lifting and carrying cigars and crates of loose tobacco to the three floors of the huge building on 14th Street. Jiyong was a cigarette smoker but these things made him sneeze and his fingers constantly smelled of tobacco. His hands grew rough again from the wooden crates and his head ached from the din of the machines. He knew he was lucky to have the job at all: most of the workers were Hispanic, as were the owners, and they were part of a community Jiyong could never belong to. No-one was overly nasty to him on his shifts but he couldn’t join in their conversation.

“It’s only a couple of months,” said Seunghyun encouragingly, kissing his sore hand before handing him a bottle. Jiyong sighed and took a swig of liquor – if there was one thing you _could_ say about Tampa it was that it was wet. He passed the bottle to Edgar, who passed it to Timtam, who called Jiyong a spoiled princess and toasted him with it. “I don’t see _you_ working your ass off!” Seunghyun accused the dwarf across the fire.

“Hey, I work.” Jiyong didn’t know what his small friend did all winter except drink and doodle, but he didn’t seem to be hurting for money so maybe it was true. Seunghyun snatched the bottle from Timtam, who flipped him off. Jiyong scooted closer to the older man and let Seunghyun lean his head on his shoulder: his Tabi had been working hard too, and if it wasn’t as unpleasant as the cigar factory it was probably as tiring. Seunghyun had applied to the factory along with Jiyong, but a day or so later saw something in the local paper that made him look thoughtful.

“What is it?” Jiyong inquired. Seunghyun closed the newspaper.

“…Oh, nothing.”

“C’mon, Tabi.” The smaller man snatched it from him and laboriously scanned the back pages ‘til he found the one Seunghyun had been staring at. It contained a small advertisement calling for private tutors. “Why were you hiding this?” Jiyong asked, puzzled. Seunghyun looked sheepish.

“…Didn’t want you to work in that place by yourself,” he mumbled.

“You idiot!” Jiyong smiled at him, touched that he wanted to keep him company. “Why waste that big brain on tobacco when you could do something you might have half a chance of liking? I don’t mind, baby, honestly,” Jiyong continued when Seunghyun pulled a face. “And if it makes you more money it’s good for both of us!” He was determined to multiply the diamonds sitting cozy in their pouches around Seunghyun’s neck.

“I probably wouldn’t get it anyway.”

“Tomorrow you apply!” ordered Jiyong. Seunghyun pulled him close and kissed him, and Jiyong figured it was a done deal.

Seunghyun didn’t get the job. He wouldn’t say why, but his face told Jiyong everything he needed to know: the fancy-ass school that’d put the ad in the paper had no use for a Korean tutor. It upset the younger man that the world they’d deliberately joined the Circus to avoid still had the power to hurt his beloved. He sat talking to Seunghyun and stroking his hands ‘til the tension went out of them, and consoled him with his body – it was the best way he knew. And he wouldn’t let him give up. In the morning he sent Seunghyun off to ask around the immigrant and African-American church schools; and, as he’d thought, they turned out to be way smarter than the snobs up by Temple Terrace: when Jiyong met Seunghyun after his shift he was smiling.

“Told you,” said Jiyong, beaming at him.

“They’re nice.” Seunghyun sipped at the laced coffee his partner had bought him in celebration. “The kids’re rowdy but I only have to tutor small groups. And they can’t be anything like as obnoxious as my undergrads!”

“You’re gunna be great!”

“I still have my degree,” agreed Seunghyun, a hint of resentment clouding his tone. “And half a Master’s. They’ll get a good education out of me even if I’m _not_ white.”

“Course they will.” Jiyong bumped Seunghyun’s ankle with his own under the table: once, twice, three times ‘til it became a rhythm. “Let’s go out tonight, Tabi, we deserve it!” Seunghyun rolled his eyes – he knew when Jiyong meant to party hard – but grinned resignedly and nodded.

They had more fun that night and the whole of the off season than Jiyong had thought possible on such a budget. It helped that Tampa was a roaring hub of defiance against Prohibition: you could get a drink anywhere, and with the port on one side of the city and the backwoods of Florida on the other – the first supplying bootlegged foreign liquor and the second local moonshine – it didn’t cost half what it did in Chicago. There were constant raids and areas where their faces weren’t welcome, of course, but that didn’t matter when the non-white sections swung so hard. They attended more jazz dives in those few months than Jiyong had during his whole tenure at the House, and he danced and danced ‘til his poor Tabi was sick of it, spilling out into the warm night high and frenzied with the crowds of revelers around them.

There were plenty of other attractions that wouldn’t cause a hangover or break the bank: the ocean, the first Jiyong had ever seen; museums and galleries; a famous traveling ‘Million Dollar Band’ that played concerts in Plant Park all winter; new cuisines to try out from all around the South and beyond the sea; and the childhood home of the famous Colleen Moore – she was the biggest selling star in Hollywood that year, Jiyong told Seunghyun enviously – to gawk at. New Year was a blast too: to their astonishment Terrell showed up drunk at the nightclub they were in on December 27, and he remained drunk ‘til January 3. He seemed to have no problem associating with the low-level Cirkies during his Florida vacation and they all saw 1927 in together. The manager’s mood was less expansive once the booze wore off, but he pitched his luxurious tent in the camp outside Gibtown and they lived amicably as neighbors ‘til the time came to roll out for Peru.

“We did okay, huh, Tabi,” murmured Jiyong the night before Terrell and Timtam and the others left Gibtown. Seunghyun nodded and handed him their jewel pouches: he knew Jiyong was an avaricious creature who liked to feel their weight. The smaller man clutched them to himself as Seunghyun wrapped both arms around him and tugged the blanket higher; he sighed, and wished his own bag was heavier – he wanted to keep his family and himself in as much comfort as his former career had let him. Well, perhaps this would be his year!

 

* * *

 

They stayed back in Florida and worked while Sells-Floto went on to Chicago. When the time came they took a leisurely trip up to meet it, riding the slow cheap trains and enjoying each other ‘til the Circus would force them into semi-celibacy again; Jiyong wasn’t looking forward to that at _all_. The first date after Chicago was Peru – for no good reason that Jiyong could see, the route was a mystery to him – so they found themselves in familiar surroundings waiting for the big train to get in.

The first thing Jiyong did after reclaiming his bunk was scope out any changes to the lineup: there was a new death-defying ‘iron jaw’ act[9] and a troupe of Chinese acrobats in the Big Top; in the sideshow the Fat Man was gone and a Fat Lady had joined them, said Ed, who was always happy to gossip. Her husband had joined too, he was a stilt walker.

“So do we get more room?” asked Jiyong happily – the recent departure had sure taken up a lot of space in the car.

“Nope.” Ed downed his coffee. “They stuck two more in, you’ll meet ‘em at the matinée: a chap with three legs – name of Georgie, quiet kinda guy. And the Ice Man.”

“Ooh, who’s that?”

“Magician,” said Ed. “He’s pretty good, he’ll get his own compartment soon I wouldn’t wonder.” Jiyong was immediately envious; he’d forgotten how damn cramped his berth was. “Say, you got anythin’ to drink?” asked the Ostrich with a hopeful look.

“After the night show,” promised Jiyong, and they went off to get changed.

He very quickly settled back into the old routine: basking in the dubious attention of the rubes, trying to spend time with Seunghyun, and worrying about money – that was on his mind more than ever. He _had_ to get promoted this year. In the meantime he met the new sideshow acts. The Ice Man absolutely wowed him, not just ‘cos he was a very clever magician but because of his looks: Tomas wasn’t handsome but he was absolutely extraordinary.

“He’s an albino,”[10] Seunghyun informed Jiyong after catching his act one afternoon; Tomas had already been promoted to a prime stage position and Jiyong couldn’t blame ‘em, the guy was incredible. “Pretty severe case, I should think.” The European had paper-pale skin, pure white eyebrows and eyelashes, and a head of snowy hair that stuck out several inches like dandelion seeds. To Jiyong’s endless fascination his eyes weren’t the icy blue that Seunghyun told him was usual with his condition, but light pink.

“It doesn’t seem to bother him any,” he told Seunghyun.

“No, apparently not.” They’d both seen the magician teasing the crowd – he was confident, flamboyant, and had a rather wicked sense of humor; Jiyong was kinda shy of him ‘cos he thought those jokes could easily tip over into being cruel. There was no doubt he was an interesting addition to the Circus. All the same, Jiyong was glad his bunk was at the opposite end of the car.

 

* * *

 

By the end of the third week in Canton, Ohio, Jiyong was fully in the swing of things and feeling like a veteran: it was nice not being constantly on the receiving end of labored explanations and jokes about new fish. His double act with Flora was better than ever and without having to practice so often he could spend more time enjoying the Circus itself. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still learning stuff – such as how to ensure private time with Seunghyun.

In anticipation of doing just that, one gray afternoon Jiyong changed into a shirt with a high collar and long sleeves, stuck a flat cap on his head and ventured out onto the Midway to while away the time. He wasn’t exactly supposed to be there before the evening show, but he wasn’t giving anything away for free with his ink covered and he loved the atmosphere of it, the smell, the din of the crowd and calliope, the cheap snacks. He bought one from his favorite candy butcher – she always gave Jiyong a discount – and wandered along looking at the various kinkers advertising their acts and the locals who’d flocked in from the country to see them. There was always some drama going on among the rubes, and occasionally tension between them and the Cirkies, in which case the patches would be called for to smooth things over before a real fight started. Sometimes Jiyong thought it’d be fun to see one, and he wasn’t the only Cirkie who hoped they wouldn’t break it up in time: some of ‘em loved to brawl. But this afternoon was breezy and peaceful, and Jiyong strolled on.

Halfway down, between a hotdog vendor and a Hoopla stand, was the strongman. As usual he was surrounded by an admiring crowd but he was tall enough to pick out easily. Jiyong didn’t like to approach the artists when they were doing their thing and he hadn’t really spoken to this one since they’d met last year, so he lurked on the edge of the awed bunch of rubes and watched him show himself off.

“Hey, you!” Gough noticed him and waved him over. “Enjoying the show?” He winked at Jiyong.

“Sure, Mister!” said Jiyong, like he was any other country bumpkin. “It’s swell!” Gough smirked and curled his biceps in a statuesque pose; the women all made appreciative noises and he beamed and began to chat with them. Jiyong recognized that here was someone very like himself: a guy for whom attention was as good as oxygen. Only there was a great deal more of _this_ man to look at.

“Say, how easy could you pick me up?” asked Jiyong around his candy apple, prodding at Gough’s arm muscles with the rest of the rubes; they were like solid wood beneath the tan of his skin. The strongman left off flirting with a cute farm girl and gave him that pleased grin.

“With one hand. And that’s overkill.” Gough held out his arm, huge palm up. “Hop on!”

“You’re kidding, right?” The big man shrugged and waggled his fingers, so Jiyong called his bluff and gingerly parked his butt on the waiting hand, shifting to sit half across Gough’s broad forearm. A second later his feet left the ground; Jiyong swayed, amazed, but quickly caught his balance.

“…Ready?” Gough gave a mild grunt, and to the obvious delight of his audience lifted his arm: smooth as if he was on an elevator Jiyong found himself rising up above the man’s head. He let out a squeak – Gough’s massive fingers were necessarily close to some pretty private areas now – but the perch felt secure enough; he crossed his legs to decrease the amount of ass that required supporting, and as he did so he saw Seunghyun weaving his way through the Midway.

“Tabi!” he called over the music and chattering crowds. Seunghyun peered around, so Jiyong waved his candy apple to catch his attention. For an instant he wondered what the older man would think about him essentially being groped by this big handsome kinker; to his relief Seunghyun just laughed aloud and headed toward him as Gough gently set him down. “Thanks!” said Jiyong, giving the strongman a twinkle. “That was crazy!” Gough, who wasn’t even sweating, held out his hand, completely enveloping Jiyong’s fingers as he shook it.

“You’ve got great balance, you could do somethin’ with that; you should apply to round out the numbers in the Spec.” Here Gough turned away to tout his act to the crowd, and there was Tabi smiling down at him. Buoyed by the compliment from the Big Top veteran, Jiyong felt like kissing him hello: Seunghyun looked so appealing with that pencil stuck behind his ear and his hair mussed up – he’d been doing a stock check, Jiyong bet. Instead the smaller man took his arm.

“That’s quite a guy,” observed Seunghyun, looking down at his own skilled but regular-size hands. Jiyong offered his candy apple, and he took a bite even though he didn’t particularly like sweets. “I talked to that bullhand,” he told Jiyong, right in his ear where it tickled. “Gave him a tip and he says we can bunk with the ‘ladies’ in Car Five when we move out tonight.” Jiyong grinned happily: the bullhand’s bunk was more comfy than the canvas car and he had no shame whatsoever about making out next to a bunch of elephants – although sometimes they _did_ get kinda curious and you might wind up with a snuffle from a trunk where you were least expecting it – but it’d taken weeks of blue balls for Seunghyun to get on board with the animals, as it were.

“How much you give him?” he inquired. Seunghyun shrugged as the smaller man led him toward the back yard to get ready for the evening show.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s worth it, isn’t it?”

“Course.” Jiyong pictured everything he’d be able to do with his Tabi later; he couldn’t wait. “Still, it all adds up.” He hadn’t had to be this concerned with money since before he’d run away from home: his dad still wasn’t well, and lately Dami had mentioned that Soomin wanted to attend secretarial college. Whatever his youngest sister wanted Jiyong was gunna make damn sure she got, but he hadn’t figured out _how_ yet.

“Yeah,” agreed Seunghyun, his smile dipping as they passed Terrell’s office tent and moved apart for propriety, sideshow act and Big Top tech once again. “But what can we do?”

 

* * *

 

“Tabi, what’s wrong?” asked Jiyong a few Sundays later as they disengaged from each other on the road between town and the Circus lot. He yawned, exhausted. It seemed to him that Seunghyun had been awfully antsy recently, and it was more than the usual sexual frustration. The older man generally enjoyed a weekend trip to town, but these days he’d drag Jiyong there as soon as possible after the Saturday night show to drink and dance wherever would let them in, sometimes ‘til morning. This was much more Jiyong’s speed than his partner’s, so of course it made him curious as to what was up. On Sundays Seunghyun would take him to any attractions that were open, like he couldn’t bear to have a moment’s down-time; the only exceptions were when he let Jiyong pull him into the woods to fuck or just lie together away from everyone.

“Huh?” Seunghyun was frowning. He stepped absently around a couple of ballet girls who gave him two flirtatious smiles, and Jiyong could tell he hadn’t even noticed.

“You’ve been so…unusual lately.”

“It’s nothing.” The taller man shot him an affectionate look, but Jiyong wasn’t buying that and peered up at him challengingly ‘til a loose stone in the road almost caused him to fall. “Watch where you’re going,” said Seunghyun, catching him, and _there_ was a shadow of his old amused look. Jiyong stared stubbornly back. “I’ve just been worried about you,” Seunghyun told him eventually.

“ _Me_?”

“I don’t like to see you feeling so pressured over money; I’ve been trying to take your mind off it.” Jiyong puffed his cheeks out in dismissal: no doubt his Tabi _was_ feeling sorry for him, but taking him out to spend all their spare change in small-town speakeasies and jazz clubs didn’t exactly display a will to be thrifty.

“I’m not talking about me,” he told Seunghyun. “What’s wrong with _you_?” Seunghyun looked at the ground with a deep furrow between his brows, as if this was the first time he’d ever thought about it. After a minute he met Jiyong’s gaze again.

“…I think I’m bored.” The younger man stared at him without speaking: _bored_? How could anyone working for the Circus be bored? Exhausting, frustrating, annoying, it was all of these, but he’d never imagined someone who made fireworks and stood shoulder to shoulder with elephants and tigers every night could think it _tiresome_. Or…perhaps Seunghyun meant something else: that he’d gotten bored of _him_! No, that was ridiculous, Jiyong’s vanity wouldn’t allow that – but a small part of him reminded the rest that Seunghyun was a fiercely intelligent man who’d spent his days in the company of other educated people, no doubt discussing lofty affairs that he, Jiyong, would never in a hundred years understand. This time the look he gave his lover was tentative: he didn’t wanna see that idea confirmed. “No, no, no,” said Seunghyun firmly, obviously reading his face. “I mean there’s nothing to _do_ , when I’m not making up supplies and I can’t spend private time with you. The riggers are mostly nice guys but I can’t talk about sports and rope and women all day; and there’s not a book on the train I haven’t read.” He reached out and quickly touched Jiyong’s hand. “Feels like I’m…stagnating,” he confessed. “I swear, you and the job are the only things that get me up in the morning. If we could spend more time together…”

“I know, baby,” said Jiyong earnestly, “I want that too!” Dammit, he needed a promotion; even enough spare cash to splash out on the occasional weekend hotel would work wonders.

“But seeing as we can’t, any distraction’s welcome.”

“You know what you need?” Jiyong exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “A hobby! How about crossword puzzles, they’re all the rage.”

“The ones in the local papers are too easy,” complained Seunghyun.

“All right, how about _crochet_?” They looked at each other and started laughing. “…Okay,” the smaller man allowed, relieved as hell that _he_ wasn’t the problem. “But I’m gunna think of _something_ fun for you to do, Tabi, while you’re not doing me!”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong thought about it on and off for the next few weeks, in between another animal escape – five zebras this time – and another jaunt through Canada, and another inevitable raid. What would keep Seunghyun busy and out of trouble? What was he _good_ at? All the things Jiyong thought were fun either cost money like shopping or were brainless like reading fashion magazines. Maybe Seunghyun should get into poker, there was always a game when the workers’ ‘G-top’[11] tent went up on the lot. No, that was way too dangerous: what if he got addicted and lost everything?

He gave up thinking for a while and simply enjoyed the early summer afternoon. They were in Glenn Falls, New York and Jiyong was threading the hair off his legs in the grass a little way from the train, undershorts pushed up around his thighs. Lena the Snake Lady, who was now casually dating Ed, had shown him how; her mother was from India, she said, and Jiyong did it every few weeks so his tattoos were shown off in their full glory. Seunghyun seemed to like the feel of it, too. And speak of the devil, here came his lover now with Timtam and Edgar and his brothers, their pockets looking suspiciously heavy.

“Lunch!” announced Seunghyun, flopping down beside him and handing him a dukey bag. The rest of the Florida crew commandeered Jiyong’s blanket and he finished doing his legs while Seunghyun fed him sandwiches. He felt warm and contented; the older man was looking at him fondly, though Jiyong could tell Seunghyun was bothered that he was so preoccupied lately – now with the bigger man’s wellbeing as well as the old question of money. They’d begun their acquaintance with Seunghyun thinking he was a gold-digger; and, to be fair, he was. Did his Tabi mind?

“Here,” said Edgar, once they’d all lit cigarettes. He reached conspiratorially into an oversize pocket and pulled out a bottle; it had no label. Timtam produced a similar one and they clinked them together after a furtive look toward the train.

“Where’d you get that?” demanded Jiyong; everyone had been nursing their liquor since the raid, which had put Timtam in a foul mood, but by the look of their pockets they were practically swimming in the stuff. Edgar upended the bottle down his gullet; he went vaguely cross-eyed, then passed it to his older brother. It went around ‘til it came to Jiyong. Well, he thought, it was a Sunday so why not? He took a conservative gulp and immediately felt his throat catch fire. Seunghyun snatched the bottle from him and with an authoritative air took a sip while the younger man went on choking.

“Ugh…what _is_ this stuff?!” the former bootlegger exclaimed over the sound of Jiyong’s coughing.

“Local moonshine,” said Timtam defensively. “Someone’s got a still back in the woods, Edgar took a little walk after church. Those hicks don’t like us but they’ll sell to us. Rotgut, but best we can get – we lost all the Canada stuff to the Prohis again.” Seunghyun rubbed Jiyong’s back soothingly and the younger man leaned into his touch, eyes watering – he’d never had liquor that could actually make him cry! Not from just the taste, anyhow.

“Whatever they’re charging you, it’s too much,” Seunghyun opined.

“Yeah, well, reckon _you_ can do any better?”

“…Actually,” said Seunghyun, sounding nettled, “I just goddamn _bet_ I can.” Jiyong recognized that tone: ever since that fancy school had refused to hire him his partner had grown an odd dislike of people undervaluing him – which had never bothered Jiyong, but then _he’d_ never been to college – and now it sounded like Seunghyun was about to prove something. Well, if he wanted to start cooking up moonshine for the Cirkies Jiyong wouldn’t dissuade him; what a perfect way to keep him busy and using his brain! He could maybe even make a little money outta it. And a drink never hurt anyone. Jiyong wiped his eyes, leaned companionably against Seunghyun’s shoulder, and smiled: looked like his problem was solved.

 

“You really sure you wanna do this, Tabi?” he asked a week later.

“Yeah,” said Seunghyun with determination. “I wanna see how much I remember!” He’d bought a new notebook and was jotting down memos in Korean – seemed he remembered a hell of a lot, thought Jiyong as his lover’s terrible scrawl filled the pages with cautions and recipes.

“You got a place to set it up?”

“Yeah, I had a quiet word with the cookhouse manager, he’s gonna let me do it in back of one of the commissary cars. He’ll get me the ingredients too if I supply him and his buddies. I’ll run the still on weekends and work out the flavorings and stuff whenever.”

“Timtam’s _very_ excited.”

“I bet,” said Seunghyun in a dry tone. “Only let’s try and keep this under wraps, shall we? I dunno if it’ll even work and I don’t want the gaffer to bust me before I have a chance to get started.”

“Don’t worry,” Jiyong told him. “No-one in the sideshow’s gunna jeopardize the prospect of having their own private distillery!” He loved that gleam in the bigger man’s eye, that experimental curiosity and slightly mad-scientist enthusiasm. _This_ was the Seunghyun he knew! The sooner he got started, the sooner Jiyong could take the concern he’d been reserving for his beloved and put it back where it belonged: advancement and money.

 

* * *

 

Seunghyun was happy as could be setting up his new project when Jiyong at last got an offer from management regarding his own career; though it was an offer he’d never expected. One of the all-trade kids – usually children of Cirkies who accompanied their parents on the road and ran messages for people – came to the sideshow car before roll-out to tell him Terrell had summoned him.

“Did he say why?” inquired Jiyong, half excited and half unnerved: the manager didn’t exactly seek out his company during the season. The kid shook its head and told him to go to the office car, then disappeared.

“Did the Princess do something naughty?” called Tomas the albino from his end of the car, where he was showing the Wolf Boy card tricks and teasing him. He sounded kinda pleased. Jiyong simply shrugged and jumped off the train.

“Oh, Jiyong, there you are,” said Terrell when he arrived. “Have a seat.” Jiyong looked around the agent’s car, eyebrows raised: Terrell had never offered such a courtesy before, he barely spoke to the sideshow acts unless he had something to say; and besides, there was really nowhere to sit. He settled for taking a perch on the edge of a stool crowded with papers, and waited expectantly. “You know your double act with Flora did not too badly last year,” the manager began.

“Thank you, Sir!” said Jiyong, who did know. Was Terrell gunna ask them to expand it, maybe even give them a raise? He laughed at himself – as if!

“How would you like to make some extra cash?” asked his employer, flooring him almost into silence, though not enough to stop him nodding.

“Wouldn’t we all, Boss?” he managed once he’d gotten over his surprise.

“Quite so. Well now, as you can imagine the Circus doesn’t have too much spare capital at the moment.” Jiyong’s eyes narrowed; he’d gathered last season had been damn good financially, did the man think he was a rube? He’d heard Cirkies from all over were calling this a new Gilded Age and hoping for pay rises. “So what I’m offering,” continued the manager blithely, “is a chance to earn some, both for us and yourself.” _Not_ a raise, then, he thought. “We ask a lot of our artists to do cherry pie – extra work for extra pay,” Terrell explained at his puzzled expression.

“What kinda work?” inquired Jiyong, a bit suspicious now.

“All sorts.” Terrell paused and ran those money-making eyes over him. “But the lot manager for the sideshow asked me if you’d be interested in…well, in the evening burlesque.” Jiyong furrowed his eyebrows.

“The _cooch show_?!” he exclaimed once he’d figured it out. “You’ve gotta be… As _what_?” With two hundred roustabouts onsite he was the last person anyone would hire as an enforcer of good behavior.

“…As a performer.” Jiyong realized his mouth was hanging open and shut it with a snap. Since last year he’d learned that only the most voluptuous and attractive showgirls worked the cooch show, which was strictly for men and less a burlesque than a straight strip act made ‘artistic’ with living statues onstage. He knew that the odd Big Top ballet girl got invited to make some bucks on the side if they were good-looking enough, but to ask a member of the freakshow, and a boy at that…!

“What kinda money is that gunna make you?!” he demanded, too astonished to be polite. “If anything you’ll get mass walkouts!”

“Don’t think very highly of your own appeal, do you.” Jiyong thought _extremely_ highly of it and had seven years’ worth of proof to back him up – but it hardly applied in this setting.

“To be honest, Boss, this sounds kinda hinky,” he retorted. The manager scowled at him and his sanguine face went even redder, but this was no time to beat about the bush. “I don’t see how the Circus can profit from this, there’re a hundred stunners in the ballet corps who’d be a better bet than me, and I can’t believe you’re hurting that much for money in any case. I won’t do it.”

“Tch.” Terrell puffed at his cigar; Jiyong waited to see if he was about to get fired. “Herman came asking my advice – about you in particular. He’s been very concerned about you this season. This is my solution, and in your case the profit is less about cash and more about calm.”

“How is me stripping gunna bring about _calm_?” Terrell’s full statement caught up with him. “Wait, whaddya mean, me in particular?” The big man blew out a cloud of smoke, grumbled to himself, but finally spoke up.

“Ever since you changed your act and started singing with Flora we’ve been getting comments – inquiries on the side.” He sounded almost accusing. “I thought it’d be trouble as soon as I saw you – all that makeup and starlet lingerie. You _knew_ it’d make the rubes wonder, and it did. And while I don’t deny it’s a good strategy, I’ve now got a bunch of drunk confused men at every town we stop in wondering a little _too_ hard about you!”

“Huh?”

“This is what I tell all my oddities,” Terrell went on crossly. “These people pay to see _what you have_ ; and your singing in that pretty voice and lounging around almost-but-not-naked-enough has got ‘em aching to find out and quite unable to – and poor Herman has a lot of unsatisfied customers bending his ear after every performance. I don’t want to be dealing with a Hey Rube[12] brawl or the cops because some city boy decides he simply _has_ to find out what’s under your silk shorts one night and jumps you in the dark! So we want to offer them a chance to satisfy their curiosity, and keep the peace.”

“At the _cooch show_.”

“Where they’ll pay all over again to find out.”

“And whaddya figure will happen when they do?!” said Jiyong in disbelief.

“They’ll go on their way, safe in their conclusion that you’re just another freak; or they’ll have the best show of their lives. Either way we have plenty of security, you’d be quite safe. We’d put you on at the end so any walkouts don’t hurt the girls’ tips.”

“This is nuts.”

“Is it?” countered Terrell. “Your man sure seems to find you irresistible. Why imagine he’s the only one?”

“Say I _did_ decide this isn’t the worst idea ever,” said Jiyong with his chin up. “How much would I get paid?” The manager chewed on his cigar.

“…Forty extra a week, plus any tips you collect.” Jiyong felt his eyebrows rise: compared to what he’d charged at the House forty dollars was a pittance; but it would almost double his current wage. “They’re pretty good tips, too,” Terrell said coaxingly. “Look, I understand you have some moral objections-”

“I don’t,” Jiyong cut in. How could he after the life he’d led before? “I just didn’t see why you wanted me to do it. Now I do.” Terrell stopped moving.

“So…”

“So I’ll do it.” The man almost bit his cigar in half.

“You will?”

“If you’d been straight with me sooner I might’ve said yes sooner,” Jiyong told him with a shrug. “I’ll try it once, anyway, and if I don’t get egged offstage we can talk again. I _could_ use the money.” It was forty dollars a week he could send home, he thought with pleasure. Wouldn’t that make his family happy? That was definitely why he’d agreed – certainly not the thought of admiring stares, the idea of all those eyes watching him with the same hunger that’d fed his vanity back at the House. It had been dizzying, that attention; these days the only person who saw him like that was–

“Seunghyun.” Terrell glanced up and stopped congratulating himself.

“Pardon?” The younger man exhaled slowly; he had absolutely no problem trying this if it helped out Herman and benefited himself, but it’d only bring up bad memories and needless jealousy for his lover. Tabi had just got a new interest and managed to quit worrying about him, it would be so mean-spirited to make him anxious again. It’d be more comfortable for everyone involved, decided Jiyong, if he didn’t find out quite yet.

“Just…don’t tell Seunghyun,” he said. Terrell nodded, understanding immediately.

“We’ll give him an extra job, helping with tear-down or the lighting engineers maybe; I’ll see he gets paid and that everyone else keeps their mouths shut.” Jiyong didn’t mention that Seunghyun was already busy with some off-the-books activity: stripping was one thing, making illegal hooch for the Cirkies quite another. Terrell just smiled expansively and gestured his permission for Jiyong to leave. “You’re a sensible young man; I won’t forget it.”

Jiyong nodded and shut the car door behind him, hoping Terrell _would_ remember it when he eventually made his move for the Big Top. He also hoped his new job would prove exciting enough to lift the small weight that had just settled on his shoulders.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong got changed after the evening sideshow into his regular clothes; he was nervous and his fingers were unsteady on the buttons. It was a week after his surprising conversation with Terrell, and tonight was the first night he was due to try out this crazy idea. He couldn’t imagine how it was gunna go.

“Off to the Big Top?” asked Ed as Jiyong called goodnight to Flora.

“Yup.” Jiyong swiftly exited the dressing room and strolled in that direction behind the Midway; but once he figured he was outta sight he ducked away from the Top and slipped off past the menagerie to an isolated, dully-glowing tent at the edge of the lot. A couple of shifty-looking rubes peered at him through the dark as he approached. He pulled open the flap and was confronted by a large roustabout. “I work here!” he said hurriedly before he got slung out on his ass. The man looked closely at his face with its traces of makeup.

“…You the new act?” Jiyong nodded and was allowed past; the roustabout watched him go with a doubtful expression. The smaller man knew how he felt.

He’d come in the front entrance. There was a small vestibule, then a silk curtain. When he pushed it aside he found a bunch of bales and wooden chairs set up in rows facing a stage about a foot and a half high – almost close enough to reach out and touch, thought Jiyong, now kinda concerned for his own safety. The lamps were tinted pink like a French whorehouse. There was no-one in the place but a four-piece scratch band tuning up; they looked mighty surprised as he passed. Unsure of what he oughta be doing, Jiyong climbed the steps and went backstage. There he found his new colleagues.

“This,” said one of the women, “is gonna be real interesting.” They’d all crowded round to examine Jiyong. He knew one or two of them in passing but the rest were strangers; still, he felt such a sense of familiarity and nostalgia at the sight of them that he was immediately consoled. It reminded him distinctly of the House: nowhere else had he been surrounded by such a collection of bosoms and bottoms, soft skin and sweet-smelling hair, women in a rainbow of shapes and colors: something for everyone, that’d always been the rule. He smiled at them and some of his nerves disappeared.

“I’m Jiyong,” he told them. “I got no idea if this is gunna work.”

“Yeah, but we heard you’re getting those country boys a little too stiff to be comfortable.” This from a buxom blonde taller than Jiyong. Like the others she was lounging easily in a robe open just enough to show a small gauzy costume underneath. None of them seemed at all bothered at being undressed in front of him or the two big enforcers who stood looking bored against the wall. “They said you’ll be going on last,” she explained. “So we don’t have to deal with the walkouts.” The other women nodded emphatically. “It’s easy enough if you’ve done this kinda thing before.”

“…Sorta,” he acknowledged.

“If you give the band boys advance warning they’ll play whatever tune you want. If not it’ll just be something sleazy. You get a max of ten minutes. The rubes aren’t allowed to touch you; if they try one of these guys’ll help you.” She jerked her thumb at the roustabouts. “There’s a box at the back they can use to tip if they want. But if they really like you they’ll throw money right at you. It’s up to you, collect it at the end or make it part of your act.”

“Okay.”

“Also,” put in a warm-skinned brunette, “they ain’t meant to jerk it in front of ya. If ya wanna let ‘em do that kinda thing they have to wait ‘til after and pay extra.” Jiyong didn’t think that was gunna be a problem: a bunch of country bumpkins who’d paid to see a lot of naked women? He’d be lucky if he didn’t get bottled.

He found a free mirror and redid his makeup, checked his marcel wave and the jeweled clips that sparkled in it, and changed into his costume. It was basically a shorter version of his silk sideshow tap pants and sheer top, the whole thing covered by a gaudy kimono and sash that he’d scored from Wardrobe: very typical ‘geisha girl’. He went barefoot, he didn’t have any heels and anyway it might be overkill. A few of his coworkers nodded at how he’d scrubbed up; the others still looked highly dubious.

Jiyong watched the performances from behind the backstage curtain. He’d known it was time to begin around halfway through the Big Top show: the unmistakable voice of a talker had piped up outside the cooch tent and was describing the delights within, encouraging the men to reach in their pockets – only seventy-five cents. That was on top of the Big Top fee at a dollar and the sideshow and Wild West show at another fifty cents each. Jiyong figured if they got horny enough they’d tip well. Once the show started the rubes came and went throughout the acts – actually he’d dare say some of ‘em _literally_ came: they shuffled out quick enough. He wasn’t surprised, the acts were very hot indeed.

“Last one before you,” said the statuesque blonde. “Cooch manager’s gonna be watching out front so give it your best shot!” Jiyong nodded anxiously and went to peer round the side of the stage. The performer – the small, curvaceous brunette – had dropped her robe and was undulating in what looked like a costume copied off a Grecian vase. Quite a few of the girls had danced very nicely while they stripped, they were probably from the ballet corps; she was using an upright tent pole near the stage, and all around were half-naked women painted white, standing as still as statues in a museum. Some of the rubes were leaning forward, watching intently, others lounging back like they saw this every day; a few teenagers goggled with eyes as round as saucers.

Jiyong hadn’t been exactly sure _how_ naked they were supposed to get. The brunette waited ‘til coins were hitting the stage around her like rain before she slithered out of the last stitch of clothing and the crowd went crazy. She scooped up the cash, giving them a pretty exciting view, then darted past Jiyong and offstage. He gulped: _now_ he was getting scared, and not only ‘cos the previous performer had gone far enough for it to actually be illegal.

“Go on, then,” said the blonde, appearing behind him with a cigarette and a great deal more clothing than before. The band had struck up what Jiyong supposed they thought was an Oriental tune. What, there wasn’t even gunna be a warning for these unsuspecting men? With a deep breath of trepidation Jiyong stepped barefoot into the lights. Some of the audience had left already – probably wanted to head home before their families got suspicious. That left maybe sixty pairs of eyes suddenly fixed on him. There was some muttering, just audible beneath the racket of the band, but he couldn’t see their faces until he padded closer to center stage. A few gasps as people recognized him from the sideshow, and several men stood up right away and hurried out. Their loss, thought Jiyong defiantly. He gave the remaining rubes his most seductive cherry-red smile, let the kimono fall open ‘til it revealed the tattoos right up his thigh, and began to move.

 

Ten minutes later he collapsed backstage on a stool, trembling all over though he couldn’t tell with what. A man who must be the show manager stepped through and jerked his thumb at the roustabout enforcers.

“You two better go check outside, make sure no-one’s waiting around to cause trouble. And see he gets back safe to the train.” The large men went out. “Now, then – Jiyong, isn’t it?” he continued. “How you feeling?”

“…I dunno,” said Jiyong honestly. He’d never gotten such a variety and intensity of emotions from an audience before: surprise, amusement, disgust directed both toward Jiyong and the guys themselves, and some undeniable arousal.

“I gather some of them were asking about you at the sideshow – seems like you satisfied them tonight!”

“Not all of them.” Not even from the Chicago Outfit had Jiyong heard such a collection of insults: ‘fairy’ had been the least of them. Even the men brave enough to shout their approval had been crude. At one point as he unbuttoned his little shorts he’d been truly wondering if someone would attack him – he’d noticed a few rubes who looked like they’d like to, in some way or other, and when he’d glimpsed one of the Living Statues’ faces she’d seemed terrified. But the shadowy presence of the enforcers had done the trick and the crowd had assaulted him with their stares instead. It’d made him shiver, such a complicated feeling. And yet the sensation of standing naked in front of them and knowing he had prompted such intimate reactions had been somehow satisfying.

“You forgot your tips,” said the manager, and dug a load of coins and a few dollar bills out of his pocket. Jiyong was quite surprised by the quantity, hardly anything had been thrown onstage. Maybe the kinda man who’d appreciate him would be subtler about showing it – it didn’t matter, it was all his!

“Is there anyone _I_ oughta tip?” asked Jiyong, who didn’t wanna break any more rules. The skinny manager smiled.

“You can pay the talker. William. He’ll tout your charms however you want him to. And if one of our boys does save you from any trouble it’d be nice to thank him – with whatever currency you please.” Jiyong knew what _that_ meant, and he’d be using cash. Most of the women had disappeared; perhaps they’d boarded the train already – the Wild West show was over and he could hear the loud process of tear-down – or perhaps they were _entertaining_ some of the high-paying rubes elsewhere. Jiyong had no intention of doing that, he didn’t need money that badly. “So, I’ll tell the gaffer you’ll join the regular lineup?” said the manager.

“If you’re sure it won’t hurt your turnout,” replied Jiyong; he was still pretty doubtful about that.

“You’re gonna be fine, kid. Now put your clothes on and scoot.”

Jiyong did so in a hurry: he had to get back to his own car before any of the sideshow boys missed him and started suspecting something was going on. They’d likely find out at some point, but that was okay; so long as it didn’t get to Seunghyun before Jiyong could break the news himself. Soon. Eventually.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9An ‘iron jaw’ act was an aerialist (often a woman) who would hang from their teeth to do their routine. In the early 20th century death-defying acts became really popular and people kept trying to outdo each other. Sells-Floto also had The Great Peters, ‘the man with the iron neck’, who’d drop 75 feet with his head in a noose (no idea how he did it but the poster is wild!).[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 10I wanted to use more real historical Cirkies for authenticity. So far Edgar the clown and his brothers, the strongman, and Sky High were real circus performers at this time. The Ice Man is based on an albino escapologist called Tom Jack the Ice King, who despite his condition was extremely extrovert and popular in a ‘class clown’ kind of way. Like many sideshow acts he owned his ‘condition’ and used it to build a successful career in a time when there was no real Welfare system: you worked or you starved.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 11I came across a reference to the ‘G-top’ or ‘G top’ tent in one of the circus glossaries I was using. It’s an old slang word for a workers’ onsite private club where they would drink and gamble. I could only find it mentioned a couple of other places but it was too apt to resist dropping it in XD.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 12A ‘Hey Rube’ was a fight or a group chase called for by a Cirkie when a customer (rube) did something unacceptable and law enforcement was absent or just didn’t care enough to deal with it. Sometimes they went too far and then there’d be a lawsuit.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> Today's title song is _'Everybody Wants A Key To My Cellar'_ by Arthur Fields (1919), another tune about Prohibition.
> 
> Well, I guess we're going to get into a little drama before long, thanks to Jiyong :) Thanks for reading, hope you're enjoying it!


	5. Ain't Misbehavin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Seunghyun gets some unwelcome news, while Jiyong ignores some good advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the most cheery chapter in which to congratulate our bingu king on finishing his service, but nevertheless: Welcome back Seunghyun!! ^o^

Seunghyun was surprised and pleased with Jiyong’s extremely affectionate mood when they eventually found time to spend the night together.

“What’s gotten into you…?” he asked, breathless, after the smaller man had stripped him the moment he got in the canvas car and devoured him for several hours with even more gusto than usual.

“Missed you, that’s all.” Jiyong _had_ , too. Terrell had made good on his promise and offered Seunghyun extra work helping the riggers during tear-down; Jiyong had encouraged him to take it, so now the older man was just getting done with his job when Jiyong’s cooch act finished. They barely had time to grab their blankets and sneak into one of the baggage cars before roll-out, but it kept Seunghyun busy and stopped him fretting over things he didn’t need to fret about. Jiyong kissed him ardently; neither of them would be able to get it up again for a while, but today he couldn’t keep his hands off his Tabi. Since the first night at his new job – once he’d gotten over the fright – he’d been in an odd mood, agitated and hungry for the touch of hands on his skin. Holding in the effect of all those stares had been almost impossible – he’d had to jerk off by himself a few times, which was a waste – and this tryst with Seunghyun had been _explosive_.

“Sorry I’m so busy lately,” said Seunghyun. He flopped exhaustedly back on the canvas and pulled Jiyong against him, limbs tangling and sticky with sweat.

“Doesn’t matter, baby. It’s nice to have the extra money.” Jiyong pressed his lips to his lover’s chest. “But speaking of busy, how’s your _other_ side project going? I hear good things.”

“Yeah.” Seunghyun gave a lazy, self-satisfied grin. “It’s a challenge, trying to do it on the fly; I don’t have half the distilling gear I had back at the House. But it’s fun to experiment. Your small friend’s helping me with testing.”

“I know it!” said Jiyong: Timtam was full of praise for Seunghyun these days; pretty tipsy praise at that. Evidently the other sideshow boys were assisting too, their car when in motion was always clinking with the sound of bottles. “Don’t poison him, willya? He’s only got a little liver.”

“I won’t.” Seunghyun chuckled, then offered: “Wanna try some? I’m maturing it in that corner where they keep the busted gear. C’mon, it’s good!” Jiyong shrugged and nodded; he loved to see his partner so animated. Seunghyun dragged his tired body up and navigated his way in the dark to the far end of the car, returning with a small bottle. “Here, test for me,” he said with a smile. Jiyong took a tentative swig – he hadn’t forgotten the last mouthful of moonshine – and was pleased to find it kinda fiery but actually nice tasting.

“You’re very clever, Tabi,” he praised the older man. Seunghyun climbed back into the blankets. Jiyong took another drink and leaned up to kiss him, the strong liquor flowing between their lips in a giddying tingle. Seunghyun pressed him back down and kissed him harder, and Jiyong found himself quite content: Tabi was happy, _he_ was happy now he’d got his fill, and he was convinced he’d made the right decision about his career move.

 

* * *

 

The cooch show chugged along nicely for another couple of weeks. Jiyong had grown used to the mixed reactions of the audience and could spot when one was thinking about doing something unacceptable, whether in the tent itself or outside afterward. He tipped the roustabouts well and they watched his back. True, a couple of them seemed to enjoy watching more than that, but they kept their hands to themselves like with all the girls. Jiyong was as determined to succeed in this sideline as he was in his other job; he’d gotten the knack of inviting likely-looking rubes with his eyes during the sideshow act, and they frequently turned up at the cooch tent. They were the ones who’d gaze with the most focused desire, and they were the best tippers. He wasn’t doing this _only_ for the attention or _only_ for the money; but the combination of both made it a much less unpleasant job than he’d at first thought, and his passionate nights with Seunghyun gave him someplace to vent his satisfaction.

The only fly in his ointment was his colleagues finding out. It happened quickly ‘cos they weren’t stupid, and some of them _of course_ couldn’t leave him to it.

“I hear you’re doin’ cherry pie,” said Timtam. Jiyong looked at him sidelong, wondering who’d told: he reckoned either Tomas the albino, who was popular with the ladies and liked to stir up trouble, or Ed, who was harmless but couldn’t resist a spot of gossip. “Yeah, you know what I mean.”

“Well, I am. So what?”

“You’re makin’ trouble for yourself,” the dwarf warned him. “It’s all very well barin’ your all to a bunch of outsiders you’ll never see again, but what if some of _these_ dirty pricks get it in their heads that you’re easy?” He waved his arm around the back yard. “If I can hear about your moonlightin’ anyone can.”

“What do the other showgirls do?” demanded Jiyong. “And I’m not _easy_!”

“The smart ones all got themselves a nice strong man.” Timtam gave him a pointed look. “You gonna ask _yours_ to stand up for you?” Jiyong pressed his lips together.

“…He doesn’t know,” he confessed.

“I figured not!”

“Don’t you dare say anything, Timtam.” The dwarf had nothing but warm feelings toward Seunghyun these days: free liquor was apparently a great ice-breaker.

“I ain’t gonna,” said the smaller man, scowling like Jiyong had offended him. “But someone will – you can bet on that. And if he knows what’s good for you he’ll put a stop to it.”

“Oh will he!”

“Christ, you young things are vain.” Timtam flicked his cigarette butt neatly into a water pail. “Look, I got your best interests at heart; and if you insist on having half the male population of Nowhere Nebraska watch your ass, _you_ better watch it too – or you’re gonna get hurt.”

 

* * *

 

Timtam was right, of course: it wasn’t more than a fortnight before Seunghyun found out. Jiyong was angry at whoever had squealed, but he’d expected it and was braced and ready.

“Come here,” said the older man in Korean one Sunday morning, his high cheekbones red with emotion. He beckoned Jiyong to the other side of the train tracks with a gesture that simply didn’t allow for a refusal. His handsome face looked taut and pinched. Jiyong yawned – he’d been sleeping in while the older man checked on his still, and Seunghyun had woken him up by yelling his name from outside – then regretted it when his lover’s expression turned thunderous.

“What is it, baby?” Jiyong asked, clambering across a train coupling and following him into the grass; the dew wet the hem of his dressing gown and his ankles unpleasantly.

“I just heard what you’ve been doing while I’ve been helping with tear-down.” Seunghyun’s jaw was tight and Jiyong could see the effort it took for him to speak calmly.

“Oh!” exclaimed the smaller man, ‘cos what else could you say? Seunghyun stopped walking and turned on him.

“How long?!”

“…I dunno, a month? Since Terrell started asking more people to do cherry pie.”

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” demanded Seunghyun in a low voice; he looked distraught, more than Jiyong thought was really warranted.

“You’re upset, aren’t you.”

“Yes!!”

“That’s why.” The older man made an incredulous noise as if Jiyong was absolutely beyond belief. “I want you to be happy,” Jiyong told him solemnly. “And I could see you were; I didn’t wanna spoil it. But the gaffer offered me this gig and it pays pretty good.” Seunghyun’s lips became a thin line: he knew damn well Jiyong had been worried over money.

“You need it that badly? Bad enough to let a bunch of dirty bastards degrade you again?” Jiyong frowned. He _did_ want the money: even with the extra forty a month he was only able to send his family half what he’d been giving them back in Chicago, and he wanted to start saving for himself, too. Anyway, he didn’t think taking his clothes off ‘degraded’ him any; he wasn’t even sure it degraded the rubes who came to watch him, not so long as they were polite. And who cared what they thought of him in any case? Jiyong had thus far found that his own self-worth was sufficient match for any amount of cruel comments.

“…I do need it,” he said. Seunghyun stepped forward and took his shoulders in both hands, his grip strong and tight. Jiyong felt a small, inappropriate thrill, but it quickly passed ‘cos Seunghyun was being so _serious_.

“I’ll help you,” swore Seunghyun. “I’ll work harder, whatever it takes. I know you’ve got more responsibilities than me, I can do more!”

“I don’t need you to work for me, not like that.” Jiyong raised his chin. “I’m making money for myself, I’m not ashamed of it and I’m _good_ at it.” The only possible reason Seunghyun could have for complaining was jealousy, and as far as Jiyong was concerned that was unfounded.

“It’s dangerous.” He oughta have known the older man would over-think this. “What if you attract another lunatic like McGurn?!”

“Tabi, it’s fine. If I don’t want someone near me, he won’t get near me: we’ve got enforcers, and no-one in the Circus is gunna tell me I _must_. This isn’t the House,” he reminded him. Seunghyun didn’t seem comforted.

“I want you to _stop_ ,” he said flatly.

“No.” There were far more reasons not to: the money, keeping the peace for Terrell and getting on his good side, and everything else.

“You _have_ to, Jiyong.” His lover gave him a shake, which only put Jiyong’s back up.

“Why d’you think you have the right to tell me what to do?!”

“I’ve got no right,” said Seunghyun in a pained voice. “Just a deeply fervent wish.” Jiyong looked at him, and as usual felt himself melt a little under that concerned, adoring gaze; Seunghyun really know how to work those big eyes of his.

“You gotta stop worrying, Tabi,” he said more softly. “It’s part of the job, that’s all; it doesn’t _mean_ anything. Just money.” It was true, too…wasn’t it?

 

* * *

 

Their argument had ended without resolution, although Jiyong privately thought he’d scored the _moral_ victory; Seunghyun didn’t own his body, after all. The Circus loaded up and trundled on to Iowa without them speaking about it again. Seunghyun tried occasionally, but Jiyong shut him down – it was enough that the bigger man was acting so possessive without having to fight about it too. Jiyong hoped that once he got used to it and saw it didn’t affect the love and affection the younger man felt for him they’d be able to coexist comfortably again. In the meantime he reminded himself that _he’d_ started this, and he’d have to put up with his lover’s bad mood ‘til Seunghyun came around.

Since their fight Seunghyun had become startlingly popular with the other techs, several of Jiyong’s personal friends, and even some of the star artists. He didn’t have to be charming, he didn’t need his good looks, and he sure didn’t have to take his clothes off: all it took was his booze. He could’ve charged a bundle for it, Jiyong scolded him, but he wouldn’t, just a bit more than what it cost him for the ingredients. The younger man was glad he was getting some satisfaction out of it, but the fact that _he_ put so much work into persuading people to like _him_ made Seunghyun’s sudden acclaim kinda annoying. That, and a lot more people now seemed to be flying Seunghyun’s colors in their personal quit-the-cooch-show debate.

It didn’t help when Seunghyun turned up one night to watch him.

Jiyong didn’t know how he’d got in; maybe someone _let_ him in, but there he was, lurking in a corner when Jiyong swept a glance over the debauched late-night audience to gauge their mood. It was always wise to take a look: there were enforcers hanging around just in case some guy tried something, but he preferred to know which men were likely to attempt to cop a feel and which were more likely to wanna punch him. He didn’t know which Seunghyun would prefer to do. His lover’s eyes were enormous as they took in his barely-fastened kimono, his softly tousled hair, makeup, and cheeky bared leg. The music started up; Jiyong looked away and began his song-and-strip, ‘cos what else he was supposed to do? He still felt the odd, cheap pleasure at being entirely the center of so much sexual tension, but in the back of his head he knew tonight was not gunna end well.

And yes: here was Seunghyun striding into the dressing room. Luckily most of the cooch girls were dressed and gone by now, Jiyong was always the last performer. The one enforcer, a lanky man with an appropriately aggressive stance and a piercing gaze that Jiyong always found somehow flattering, glanced at him inquiringly. Jiyong shook his head: he at least owed Seunghyun his say. The roustabout left the tent in silence and Seunghyun’s eyes followed him resentfully.

“Well?” said Jiyong to his lovely, over-protective, idiotic partner. “What’cha think of it?”

“I hated it,” Seunghyun told him sadly. Of course he had!

“It’s quite safe, nobody touches me.” Apparently that wasn’t doing much to cool him off.

“I wanted to fight all those men,” Seunghyun told him; his expression had turned ugly. “The ones that liked it _and_ the ones that walked out.” His shoulders were stiff and his fists clenched; he looked thoroughly miserable. Jiyong stretched out a hand but the bigger man didn’t reach for him like usual. This, Jiyong told himself, was exactly why he’d tried to keep it from him: sure, Seunghyun was overreacting, but that probably didn’t make it hurt any less. And he hated to see his Tabi hurt.

“You shouldn’t have come see.” And, as Seunghyun’s lip curled: “I don’t feel _guilty_ , Tabi. I just don’t wanna make you upset.”

“Too late,” Seunghyun snapped, his big eyes shining. “Oh, Jiyong…” The younger man rubbed at his temples; he was getting a headache.

“This kinda thing was so much easier in the House. Mr.-”

“Don’t even say it! _He_ made you like this,” said Seunghyun, looking like he wanted to thump something in lieu of Mr. Insull’s head. “That old skunk, all these miles and years away and you still feel his influence!”

“…I wonder,” Jiyong replied. “Doesn’t give me much credit for being my own man, does it?” He didn’t wanna get in another fight over this, but Seunghyun sure wasn’t helping. Of course there was _some_ truth to it: life in the House had shaped him. But had the billionaire created these shameless tendencies in Jiyong – the exhibitionism, the desire to be admired, the desire to…? Or had he merely _encouraged_ them?

“Because this isn’t you,” Seunghyun told him, his voice fierce but somehow pleading. His gaze fell on the heap of coins – Jiyong’s tips – piled on the dressing table, and he went pale. “ _Is_ it?”

“…I don’t know,” said Jiyong. And he didn’t. They looked at each other; he wanted so badly to comfort Seunghyun. But what could he say?

 

* * *

 

When Seunghyun didn’t show up the next week for their make-up-and-mend lunch date – Jiyong had made him promise and had charmed enough food outta the cookhouse staff to have a full picnic ‘cos he wanted to spoil him – the younger man went looking. He wasn’t in his own bunk, said the riggers dismissively, and he wasn’t in any of the spots where he usually made up his fireworks. Jiyong sighed, then mentally rapped himself on the head as he recalled the obvious place for him to be lurking. He climbed over to the far side of the train and walked quietly along ‘til he came to the canvas car; after a quick look around he crept inside.

Clambering down the long car over heaps of equipment and tools and rope, he soon spotted the top of that handsome head. Seunghyun was sitting cross-legged in a hidden corner, where his bottles of moonshine were maturing behind a rusty collection of spare haulage gear; he checked in on them from time to time to make sure no-one had found them and attempted to drink them before they were ready, but it didn’t usually take this much of his attention. Jiyong sprang up with his usual quiet grace and stepped lightly across atop a giant pile of storm canvas. He was about to hop down and greet Seunghyun with a long-awaited kiss and a sandwich when he noticed what he was doing: the older man had a square of card cupped reverently in his hands and was gazing at it with an odd expression. To his astonishment Jiyong saw it was the blonde photograph of himself that he’d given Seunghyun way, way back when; he couldn’t believe he’d hung on to it!

“Tabi,” murmured the younger man fondly, descending and joining him. Seunghyun started, and a peculiar tension blinked into existence along with his awareness of Jiyong. “What you doing with that old thing?”

“…Just thinking.” Jiyong heard him take a long breath through his nose, and inhaled too: he could smell liquor, and it wasn’t from the sealed bottles – Seunghyun had obviously been sampling some, which was strange ‘cos he was usually a pretty affectionate drunk; now he was barely glancing away from that photograph.

“About what?”

“About back then,” said Seunghyun in a somber tone. “And now. And _you_.”

“And?” It was flattering – and something of a relief – to Jiyong that Seunghyun still had the picture. They’d not had time for many affectionate moments lately between the segregation and the extra work and the arguments, and he thought it’d be nice to indulge in some of his lover’s sweetness. Seunghyun sighed and finally looked at him, the photograph held protectively in his palm.

“…And I was thinking: this version’s a lot easier to live with.”

“Oh.” Jiyong went cold, and without willing it he felt his eyes grow damp – from dismay or shock or anger that Seunghyun had just ruined a perfectly lovely moment. “Why?” he said, holding his voice steady. The older man looked stricken at having raised tears, but he answered quite clearly.

“You know why.” Jiyong nodded slowly, though he couldn’t see why himself in the House – himself as a whore – had been better for Seunghyun than himself right now. Maybe he was just referring to the silent and untroublesome nature of the photograph; but he had to mean _something_.

“They’re both me,” he told Seunghyun. “And you knew what you were getting.” His Tabi stared at him; with love, as always, but many other things too.

“Yeah,” said Seunghyun sadly. “I thought I did.” His eyes dropped again to the picture. Jiyong figured now was the dignified time to leave – before one of them turned nasty. He hurried off the car, pushing the dukey bag of lunch into a lucky hostler’s hands. He was no longer hungry at all.

 

* * *

 

Seunghyun didn’t come and find him after the matinée like he usually did. Jiyong didn’t go looking for him, either; he wasn’t sure that either of them was in the wrong – or in the right – but he’d been more hurt than he liked to admit by his words. Instead he took an uneasy nap, had dinner, and went to find his partner. Flora eyed him coolly and made some strategic herbal tea. He sat with her in the sideshow dressing room, watching her embroider a tablecloth and wondering what use she could have for a thing like that here.

“What’s on your mind?” said the older woman at last. “Better get it out before the evening act.” She raised her eyebrows at him, not exactly warm but _stable_. He liked the idea of that right now.

“…How can anyone have a relationship in this place?” asked Jiyong, shuffling closer and leaning in to her despondently. “How can people like us ever _keep_ someone…get married, whatever?” He half expected a telling-off about the cooch show: she was a highly moral woman, and surely all his colleagues knew about it by now.

“I’m married,” said Flora instead, looking complacent. Jiyong blinked in surprise.

“No! Really?!” She never wore a ring. “Is he here? In another circus?” The tall woman reached over him for a spool of thread, patting him on the knee as she went.

“Oh, no. He runs our farm in Wisconsin. That’s why you’ll never see me in the off season.”

“Oh!” That threw him. “But is he…I mean, did he…?”

“He’s not a freak,” she told him with a sidelong glance that let him know how dim he was being. Jiyong blushed: he had just assumed. “My grandparents retired out there; I met Lars every winter since I was a baby. We get along, I bring in a good income, and people leave us to ourselves. It works.”

“…That’s nice,” said Jiyong wistfully. Flora bit off a skein of silk and rethreaded her needle.

“I wouldn’t take up with another Cirkie. They’re like theater people: all drama. Look at that primadonna Leitzel![13] Divorce, affair, divorce, everyone reading her business in _Billboard_.” Jiyong, who rather idolized the world-famous aerialist and recognized plenty of himself in her antics, squirmed uncomfortably. “Your man will be much happier – and more manageable – if he’s in the dark as to what this life is like. And if he doesn’t know too much about your part in it.”

“Right.” Jiyong sagged. Flora peered at him, stroked her beard with a delicate hand, then smiled.

“But I guess that’s not an option for you.” Jiyong shook his head: he’d done his best to keep his sideline from Seunghyun. But in such close quarters it’d been stupid to even try, and now Flora was right: Seunghyun was unhappy. “Just be sweet to him,” she suggested, more kindly than she’d ever spoken to him before. “Don’t fight; talk. Because if you can’t understand each other, accept each other, the two of you are through. Believe me, I’ve seen it often enough.”

Jiyong shivered at her words: lose Seunghyun? He couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t even stand to try. He supposed they oughta have a frank discussion – but before that, before either one of them apologized, maybe there were some things he needed to understand about _himself_.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong wasn’t much given to self-analysis: he’d spent his life doing whatever he thought would be best at the time and there weren’t many occasions where he’d regretted it. Now he flexed his underused intellectual muscles and tried to think: why did he _really_ want to keep doing the cooch show? Where did the pleasure it brought him come from? Why did he feel so distressed over this, so burdened, when it was _Seunghyun_ who was making it difficult? And why, since their fights, had he started getting a different kinda tingle under the gaze of certain men? That enforcer who was always looking at him, he was one, and there were others, too: an hostler who was wonderful at calming the highly-strung ring-stock horses and whose glare warned Jiyong away from them and enticed him at the same time, and even a few of the stand-offish Wild West cowboys. He couldn’t tell if it was a particular body type – some of the strong female kinkers were garnering a second look too – or the way they held themselves or an attitude. All he knew was that the more weighed down he felt, the more his own gaze lingered.

He quickly decided that analyzing himself was making it worse and leading his thoughts down paths he had no wish to go. Instead he chose the route he’d always taken: he would do something _practical_. The best way to fix this problem with Seunghyun, he figured, was to get promoted outta the sideshow and into the Big Top; that way he could quit the cooch act but still maintain his income – and have even more people admire him. It helped that this was what Jiyong had always dreamed of in any case. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d go about it, but he felt better for having the beginnings of a plan.

The first step was to get himself physically ready for the kinda act he wanted to do. The second was to make some contacts, and one warm morning in Colorado Jiyong saw how he might do both as he glimpsed the strongman in the back yard. Gough was training himself with iron weights while some of the other performers hung around and smoked and watched. When Jiyong crept up to join them a few gave him a look down their noses – the guys, anyway, most of the women were still staring at the  huge man – and he knew he was butting in on Big Top territory. But when Gough noticed him shyly perched there he smiled like it was natural for people to want to come admire him, and beckoned him forward.

“Wanna be the next strongman, kiddo?”

“No,” said Jiyong, trying to figure out if Gough was teasing him or being nice. The big man held out one of his weights; curiously Jiyong accepted it, and immediately dropped it before it tore his arms off. He heard some sniggers behind him. Nettled, he narrowed his eyes then gave Gough a charming smile. “Very funny. I _do_ wanna get some exercise, though.”

“…All right.” Gough looked kinda nonplussed, but took Jiyong’s arm and pressed it thoughtfully; the fingers of one hand could curl round his bicep completely, Jiyong noted in amazement. The strongman grinned and seemed pleased. “Well. You’re never gonna be Charles Atlas. So what exactly d’you want to train _for_?” Jiyong beckoned him down and whispered in his ear so the other artists wouldn’t rag on him for being uppity.

“The aerial acts.” He’d dreamed of it in secret, wanted it ever since he’d seen his first Big Top show last April, and his time in the sideshow had only fed it: to be up there, high above everyone else – to be _free_.

“That’s more like it.” Gough didn’t seem to care about the dubious looks he was getting from his co-stars. He prodded Jiyong’s arm again. “I’ve got time. We’ll have to borrow you some smaller weights, you couldn’t lift anything I got here. But you’ve got the fundamentals already; and if you wanna fly, I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”

 

* * *

 

So began a series of afternoons – usually between the matinée and the evening show, which really made Jiyong’s already full schedule interesting – of lifting and pulling and pushing and sweating. Gough also made him run round the Hippodrome track, which he hated, although he did get to see the star acts rehearsing as he went. Jiyong confirmed to himself that he wasn’t too keen on any exercise that happened outside a bed; but as the weeks went by he found himself less out of breath and his outline in the mirror turning sinuous and sleek, which didn’t hurt his cooch act any – even Seunghyun seemed impressed, the few times he sought Jiyong’s bed. The strongman insisted on watching him use the weights, saying if he didn’t do it properly he could wind up out of commission for a month. Jiyong privately thought Gough just liked the comparison when they lifted together: his 200lbs to Jiyong’s twenty. He was always grinning, anyway.

It was after a month or so that a small but strongly-built woman padded over from the sawdust of Ring One to where they were sweating in a corner. She watched Jiyong for a bit – when he felt her gaze on him he looked up, and recognized her as one of the troupe of Chinese acrobats who’d been shipped in specially for the season. They were a big deal in Europe, he’d heard, and watching their aerial act he could see why. He wondered if he was gunna get scolded for using their space; she could only be a little bit older than him, but that wouldn’t stop her if he knew anything about kinkers.

“He wants to fly, you better add new exercises,” she suddenly said to Gough in very passable English.

“…Sorry?” panted Jiyong, putting down his weights; Gough rapped him sharply on the head so he picked them up again.

“You wanna talk Chinese to him, don’t mind me,” the strongman told her, obviously having more trouble with her accent than Jiyong was.

“He is not Chinese,” she said shortly.

“Oh! Never mind.” The woman rolled her eyes at Jiyong as if to say ‘this again’, and he smiled quickly. She returned her attention to Gough.

“Here, here, here.” She gestured to her shoulders, wrists, and waist. “And more stretches.” Gough glanced up to where one of her colleagues was hanging one-handed from a rope and turning somersaults in the air, his shoulder dislocating with every rotation; he nodded thoughtfully. “Hey,” said the acrobat, finally addressing Jiyong. “Touch your toes.” He set his weights down and did so. “More.” He laid his palms flat on the sawdust. “More!” He bent his elbows, reached as low and tight as he could ‘til his head was almost on the ground; Gough made a mildly impressed noise, but not her. “On your stomach,” she instructed. Jiyong lay down. “Now touch head with your feet. Further.” Oh, this was easy, he could do this in his sleep. “Mm,” she said.

“Well?” inquired Gough with a touch of impatience. He helped Jiyong to his feet, large hand lingering critically on the growing tone of his shoulders.

“Train two weeks more. Then maybe I let you up on my hoop and we will see if you fall off!” She jogged away to take a perch in a ring of steel hanging from a rope; her rigger smoothly drew it high into the air and she began rehearsing her routine. Jiyong watched her for a moment with the usual envious admiration.

“See?” he heard Gough say jovially, “I knew you’d catch their eye sooner or later.”

“I…wow. Thanks, Galen!” Jiyong finally understood why Gough insisted on them training inside the Big Top; he wondered if his mentor had told the acrobats about his ambitions. The strongman coughed, then slapped him on the back.

“Now run round the Hippodrome ten times!” Jiyong groaned and set off – but inside he was almost bursting with hope.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong’s patience had paid off: Seunghyun seemed to be coming around, or at least accepting that the younger man wasn’t about to give up the lucrative cooch show just yet. Jiyong could tell he still loathed the thought of it; but to his delight it appeared Seunghyun couldn’t cope with giving him the cold shoulder for long. It wasn’t exactly a reconciliation; still, it was a start, and Jiyong found with relief that their truce wasn’t so very bad – there were sweet moments. They still spent time together when they could, and not only out of duty; and when Seunghyun _did_ smile Jiyong knew it was real. Some of their best times were when they wrote letters home, perhaps ‘cos it took their minds off the metaphorical elephant in the room.

Jiyong sucked the end of his pen, then decided he’d written enough and signed his name with his best love and several kisses. He was addressing the envelope to Ella Parks, his sister’s married name – a far cry from the Kwon Dami he’d spent his early childhood with – when he noticed Seunghyun had glanced up from his own letter and was looking at him with his chin resting in his hand. Jiyong knew the older man was just _dying_ to check his spelling; there was still a lot of the tutor in him.

“Go on then,” he said, handing over the paper. Seunghyun flushed, caught out, but smiled at him.

“It’s okay to read it?” Jiyong nodded and the smile deepened, because that meant there were no secrets in the letter – nothing that would hurt him. “Read mine if you like,” Seunghyun offered. The smaller man picked up the single sheet of closely-packed sentences; Seunghyun’s handwriting had slipped back to being terrible now he’d left the University.

Seunghyun wrote his parents regularly. Jiyong understood why, of course he did, but in practice it was a most involved process for – surely – not much reward. The letters were ninety percent lies, they had to be: about Seunghyun’s job in a burgeoning automobile company in Seoul, the people he was meeting there, the state of the country. The only bit of truth in them was how homesick Seunghyun was. It showed a surprising amount of imagination in his Tabi, thought Jiyong. The procedure was thus: take a letter or rare telephone call from Daesung for some details of what was going on in Seoul; write his own letter; send it to Daesung’s cousin in Korea, who would then repackage it and post it directly to Seunghyun’s parents. Their replies came through him, too, and the whole thing took weeks.

Jiyong could see how badly he was missing them – it was harder for Seunghyun because he’d not been away from his family half his life like Jiyong had. He wished there was a way for them to go back, if only for a visit, but it seemed there was no getting over their two greatest obstacles: Capone and Mr. Insull. If either man caught wind that they were back in Chicago…well. In the meantime Daesung was a lifeline. They’d snuck into town after the Saturday show last night and used the telephone in a café.

“He did?!” Seunghyun had said to the invisible Daesung with a smile. “Well, good on him, it’s about time. Youngbae got offered a permanent job on campus,” he told Jiyong in an aside. Jiyong nodded, happy to hear it, but too wary of the patrons around them to give it his full attention. Locals were more or less tolerant of Cirkies once they were out of costume ‘cos they spent plenty of money in the towns; but Jiyong and Seunghyun couldn’t take off their costumes, their skin was their skin, and he didn’t feel completely welcome – especially with the mood created by the liquor the café was selling under the table.

“Hey.” Seunghyun touched his shoulder. “He wants to talk to you.” Jiyong smiled and switched places so the older man could keep an eye out.

“Hi Dae!” he said, smile widening at Daesung’s enthusiastic greeting. “How’s tricks?” These days he looked forward to talking with him almost as much as Seunghyun did: Daesung had got to be real good friends with his family, even Jiyong’s dad liked him.

“Oh, same old,” Daesung told him modestly. And then: “I’m almost done with my Master’s. And my Prof’s offered to hire me on as a researcher in one of his big projects, maybe even do a bit of lecturing!”

“Wow!” Jiyong was impressed; Seunghyun always told him how smart Daesung was, but he tended to forget in the face of the man’s puppy-dog good nature. Daesung started eagerly explaining his prospects. Jiyong glanced at the phone in surprise because this was surely more the kind of conversation for Seunghyun.

“Anyway!” said Daesung at last, sounding out of breath, “the reason I’m boring you with all this…”

“Not at all,” replied Jiyong politely. There was a pause, and when Daesung next spoke he’d dropped into Korean.

“Well… Hope you won’t get mad, but…I’m courting your sister.” Jiyong’s mouth dropped open. “I think she’s just the _best_!” declared Daesung, and Jiyong could hear he was beaming. “I know she’s not twenty yet but it’s still early days and by the time I get properly set up financially…”

Daesung went on and on, and Jiyong felt his own smile spreading so wide his cheeks started hurting; Seunghyun noticed and raised his handsome eyebrows inquiringly – he’d got hold of a real drink, surprise surprise, it was growing to be a habit – but Jiyong shook his head and kept listening.

“So…what d’you think?” Daesung asked, finally running out of steam.

“What does Soomin think?” countered Jiyong, switching language to match ‘cos the other man was obviously finding it easier to drop this bombshell in his mother tongue.

“Oh…” Jiyong could practically hear him blushing. “She’s going to write to you. But it was her who told me I should start courting!” That made Jiyong laugh: his little sister was as unconventional as ever.

“All right then, you have my blessing. You’ve got your work cut out for you with that one!” A thought struck him. “So you’re really staying here?” He knew Daesung loved Chicago, but what with his important family and all Jiyong had suspected he’d cave and go back to Korea after his degree.

“Yes. I couldn’t work in the old country now – not in politics like my folks want. This is the place for me, and with Claire and all…” Daesung took a breath. “I told my parents I’m here for good. That’s why I need to sort out a real job: my dad’s cut me off.”

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” said Jiyong automatically, because there was that pain, the one that lurked inside and never failed to flare up at the thought of his own father.

“He might come around,” Daesung said, optimistic. “And my mom still helps me out. But for now it’s up to me! I just wanted to you know.”

“Thanks, Dae,” murmured Jiyong. “And good luck!” Daesung signed off chirpily and put the phone down. Jiyong replaced the receiver, his head spinning with the emotions that conversation had prompted.

“What was that?” asked Seunghyun, now watching him closely. Jiyong took his arm; the other customers were staring without even trying to hide it now, he probably shouldn’t have spoken Korean.

“Tell you later,” he promised, and quickly led the older man out before he could even finish his whiskey. They jogged back to the train in silence, and by the time they arrived Jiyong had tidied up his feelings and could break the happy news to Seunghyun without thinking about his father at all.

He ended up dwelling on it later, couldn’t help himself, lying alone in his bunk as the train rattled onward. Seunghyun was in one of his dark moods – someone he’d sold a bottle to had thought to do him a favor by warning him about Jiyong’s erotic sideline – and had declined to find a free car with him that night. So Jiyong took himself to bed and half-listened to Timtam and Ed and Sky High argue about sports. The topic was so dull that his thoughts inevitably drifted back toward his own worries. They seemed to be piling higher in his mind the more time he spent alone: the old wound of his estrangement from his dad and concern about what might happen if the man found out Daesung was his son’s friend; the constant need for more money; how long it might take him to be promoted and get outta the cooch show; and, last but not least, Seunghyun’s gradual slide into resentment. His lover’s moods rose and fell day by day; Jiyong knew Seunghyun was trying his best to come to terms with the reality of the man he was in love with, but beneath the civility Jiyong was starting to sense something _black_. He was afraid it was only a matter of time ‘til it surfaced.

 

* * *

 

There was an accident in the Big Top during Tuesday’s matinée – not that that was unheard-of, but this was the first time it’d had anything to do with Seunghyun. Jiyong hadn’t been there, he was drinking honey tea with Flora to keep his voice in tip-top form for the night show; but everyone had been only too eager to tell him about it. They said a firework had burst too near the Stage One trapeze, setting one of the Chinese troupe’s ropes smoldering – thank God there were never any flyers in the air during the dazzle show. Seunghyun had reacted promptly and properly, handing one of his buckets of water to the nearest rigger, who swarmed up and put the fire out before it could light up the whole Big Top. No harm done. But the Director had to have the walkaround acts like Tomas and the come-in clowns rush on again to distract the rubes while the emergency was dealt with, and of course the whole bunch of them was flustered and pissed and pointing the finger at Seunghyun.

“Still thinking about what happened?” Jiyong said gently. He patted Seunghyun, who didn’t shake him off but didn’t exactly look comforted, either. “Accidents happen, Tabi, and anyway it wasn’t even close to the Disaster March.”

“I know,” said Seunghyun without looking at him. He lifted the brown paper bag in his lap and took a swig, then passed it to Jiyong, who managed one gulp before his eyes started watering.

“…Smooth!” he said, coughing.

“Not my best batch,” agreed Seunghyun before twitching the bottle out of Jiyong’s hand again and cradling it possessively. “But better than nothing.” Jiyong frowned.

“Tabi…it _was_ just an accident, right?”

“Course. Why?” The younger man twisted his fingers in his lap; he wanted to comfort Seunghyun, and not so long ago he’d have succeeded in a matter a seconds: a kiss was all it would take. But his meticulous and methodical Tabi was so erratic lately – Jiyong had figured it was a private problem between the two of them that’d never spill over into Seunghyun’s work…but now he had to ask.

“It wasn’t that maybe, just _maybe_ you made a mistake ‘cos…”

“Because _what_?” Jiyong paused, then sighed.

“…Don’t you think you’re drinking a bit much?” he ventured lamely. He didn’t like to nag and the older man had always liked a nip here and there; but for a while now – since he found out about the cooch show and started his own distillery – Seunghyun had stopped being a good-natured drunk and was sliding through maudlin into a snappish kinda gloom Jiyong didn’t care for one bit. He was really starting to regret encouraging him about the bootlegging – especially now with this incident, because he couldn’t shake the possibility that… But Seunghyun just shrugged at him.

“I’ll make it part of my act,” he said with an edge to his voice, and took a defiant swig from the bottle. Before Jiyong could speak again he lit a match on his boot and tossed it into the air, spitting out the strong liquor in such a way that a jet of flame ignited and shot right past the smaller man’s head.

“Act?” squeaked Jiyong once he’d regained his breath, wisely dropping the subject of the fireworks; he did his best to sound non-confrontational ‘cos to do otherwise right now might be unwise. Seunghyun laughed without humor.

“I’ve been told to fill in at the sideshow tent – as a talker.”

“ _What_?” Calm was impossible after hearing that. Jiyong couldn’t think of any job in this whole outfit that would suit Seunghyun less: talkers were gregarious, flamboyant, even _poetic_ – you had to be, to convince people to part with their hard-earned cash by touting the wonders inside the tent. “Who said you hafta?!”

“Herman – your sideshow director or whatever he is,” Seunghyun informed him dourly. “Terrell’s idea. He said that since we’ve been flouting the rules since we got here I’ve gotta work extra to make up for it.” Jiyong flushed, remembering the lengths they’d gone to in order to be together, the sneaky picnics away from the cookhouse and the bribes to the menagerie men to let them spend private time in the lead-stock car. Of course management had noticed! he thought, and silently vowed to work even harder at his Big Top dreams – anything to give them more freedom. “…And the accident,” admitted Seunghyun. “I have to pay for _that_.”

“Why a _talker_ , though?” Jiyong demanded.

“‘Cos your regular sideshow talker – ‘Professor’ Palmer, hah, I’m closer to professor than he’ll ever be – apparently has laryngitis.” Jiyong spread his hands.

“But they could get someone with _experience_ ; and you could do accounts, anything – why let ‘em put you on display like that?!”

“‘Cos I don’t wanna get fired, and like you keep saying we could use the money.” Seunghyun looked at him grimly. “Why do _you_ let them?” Jiyong knew exactly what he meant, and had no better answer now than he’d had before.

“I…”

“ _Just the money_ , right?” said the older man, his voice now dripping sarcasm, and sneered as Jiyong bit his lip. “Like you said – it’s no big deal.”

“You’ll hate it, Tabi,” urged Jiyong before they could get into _that_ fight again. “How’re you ever gunna get through it?”

“Oh.” Seunghyun raised his flask and toasted Jiyong with an insincere smile. “I’ve got all the courage I need right here.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13Lillian Leitzel was the greatest celebrity aerialist of the 20th century: by the 1910s she was the most famous woman in America, more than movie stars, more than socialites. (There’s a good book about her called _Queen of the Air: A true story of love & tragedy at the circus_ (Dean Jensen, 2013)). She was teeny-tiny but a complete luxury-loving diva – the only Barnum & Bailey performer to have the entire Big Top to herself. Still, everyone she met adored her, even when she was being a total drama queen. Jiyong would love to be her :)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> Today's title song is _'Ain't Misbehavin''_ , a jazz standard recorded by many artists including Louis Armstrong.
> 
> Next chapter: Jiyong starts to think he should've maybe taken some of Timtam's advice.
> 
> I've been doing a lot of extra GTOP illustrations lately, so if you wanna take a look you can find them on my Instagram at babyrubysoho_art [here](https://www.instagram.com/babyrubysoho_art/) or Tumblr at babyrubysoho [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/babyrubysoho) :)


	6. Coquette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the drawbacks of Jiyong's side job begin to outweigh its merits.

Herman remained unmoved by Jiyong’s complaints that letting Seunghyun fill in as the sideshow talker was a terrible idea.

“Gaffer’s instructions,” said the director implacably. Jiyong thought about confronting Terrell directly – the man owed him a favor after all – but before he could get to him it was showtime. He stopped in the dressing room as long as he could, and as soon as he took his place beside Flora he begged her to play him something on the piano: he didn’t wanna hear Seunghyun’s embarrassment, or worse, the jeers of the crowd. Even less did he want to hear his Tabi lose that famous temper. Flora gave him an old-fashioned look but began to play and sing, and Jiyong felt a swell of gratitude for his colleague.

“Know somethin’?” commented Timtam that night, after they’d rolled out with Jiyong left to another lonely sleep in his bunk. “He wasn’t as bad as we expected.”

“Oh, _that_ makes me feel better.” The sideshow performers had been as mind-boggled as Jiyong by the choice of Seunghyun for an orator – ‘til they’d guessed why, anyway – and no-one had expected much of a show. Just having the older man turn up and do the job must’ve been shocking enough.

“Know what’d stop all this nonsense?” Timtam had climbed down past Sky High and was sitting on Jiyong’s feet at the end of his narrow bed to suggest at least the illusion of a private conversation. It was too dark to see him so Jiyong gave a shrug with one leg. “You quittin’ that act. Your man would cheer up and cut out the drinkin’ – all the more for us! – and we wouldn’t have any more dumb mistakes just ‘cos his honey’s actin’ like a tramp.”

“If I hafta quit ‘cos of him the gaffer’s gunna find a different way to take it out on him,” Jiyong explained in frustration. He heard Timtam snort.

“Like you’d be that big of a loss.” Another laugh. “Ya think that tail of yours is so fine, huh!”

“Some people obviously do!” said the younger man defiantly; if they didn’t he wouldn’t have been asked to start the cooch act in the first place. Dammit, all this might be solved if he could just earn a Big Top place! He wasn’t gunna tell _that_ to Timtam, though, his friend thought he was full of himself as it was.

“Please yourself.” The dwarf removed himself from Jiyong’s feet as someone yelled at them to shut up. “Believe you me, though, Princess, this thing’s gonna get worse before it gets better.”

 

* * *

 

Oh, it _was_ , thought Jiyong frantically as the cooch show girl beside him helped him fix a glittering bracelet on his wrist. He’d refused to listen to Seunghyun’s reluctant performances every time so far, and after each evening sideshow went directly to the cooch tent where he could be around people who wouldn’t judge him. The women didn’t, anyway – that roustabout enforcer who stared at Jiyong so narrowly and whose gaze got him so hot and bothered was a different story. But Jiyong didn’t have the mental space to think about him tonight: when the Big Top show reached its halfway mark just after the first firework session the cooch talker began his spiel, and as soon as he heard that voice Jiyong physically jumped ‘cos he knew it as intimately as his own. What was he doing _here_ of all places?! This wasn’t the sideshow!

“Hey, hold still,” said his fellow performer, struggling with the bracelet. Jiyong ignored her, listening with absolute incredulity to the loud voice of his lover speak outside the tent in a way he’d never imagined possible. Seunghyun was drunk, he could hear it, but instead of slowing him down the liquor made his words run smooth, his gorgeous voice tantalizing and deep and treacherous as the edge of a chasm:

“…The most beautiful ladies – oh, but are ‘ladies’ what you’re after, gentlemen? I can see that fine red blood of yours and wouldn’t you like something to get it _pumping_?! You’re right on time, they’re just getting warmed up, the most sensual and spectacular bodies from across the globe: we’ve got a fine, upstanding, dare I say _perky_ pair of American beauties, fiery French fancies straight from Paris, and if you stick around you’ll get a glimpse of the erotic mysteries of the Orient!” – Here the listening showgirl jovially elbowed Jiyong – “Not just a glimpse, gentlemen, the Far East knows no morals and this luscious, licentious creature will bare all if you show enough _appreciation_ – and you may get the surprise of your life!” Jiyong felt his jaw drop. “Just seventy-five cents to enter,” sang out Seunghyun, “and what salacious sights will be yours! Sure, step up, step up, that’s right, hand your money to the man and feast your eyes…”

In the ensuing pause the woman next to Jiyong left him and prepared to go onstage. And now he was alone Jiyong found himself shaking – with anger, and offense, and absolute shock at how enthusiastically and articulately Seunghyun had just sold him. Who’d told him to do it?! He jumped to his feet and strode in the direction of that terrible voice, furious but also sick at how deeply disturbed his Tabi must be at this moment to be able to say such things.

“Whoa!” said Jeremiah the manager, who as usual looked almost implausibly like a Mormon. “Where you off to so riled up?” He stepped in front of the canvas door.

“Didja _hear that_?” hissed Jiyong between his teeth.

“What? Oh, the fill-in guy, he did quite well; he sure touted _your_ charms accurately, you oughta get big tips tonight.” When Jiyong tried to push past Jeremiah frowned and grabbed his arm.

“I hafta get outta here!” he announced.

“No way, you know the rules, you’re getting paid by the week: you don’t leave this tent ‘til they’ve seen you naked.”

“Fuck off!”

“Jeez, you dramatic creature.” Jeremiah gestured to that same staring enforcer and gave the struggling young man over to his care; the guy held on to him far too tight. “Hey, girls! Come calm him down, willya?” Jiyong was promptly surrounded by bosoms and sequins, their perfumed arms coaxing him outta the enforcer’s grip and onto a stool.

“C’mon, sugar, we all have nights like this.” He doubted that.

“You’ll be great when you’re out there, you get ‘em more excited than any of us.” True, in various ways.

“Just one little show and it’ll be over.” That, unfortunately, was certainly _not_.

“…All right,” said Jiyong limply. And then, because he was a goddamn professional who could smile even with a Mob killer on top of him: “Let’s do it.”

Jiyong was still being professional when the act finished, but thirty seconds after that he had his clothes on and was racing along the train, dodging the hundreds of workers and animals reloading: they’d be rolling out by midnight but before that he had some _business_. Seunghyun had vanished back to the Big Top after his astonishing performance, but now Jiyong was gunning for someone _else_. He opened the door of Terrell’s private car with a bang – the manager was still up, in his shirtsleeves drinking brandy with the advance agent. Both men stared at Jiyong like he had two heads.

“Hey, aren’t you with the sideshow?” demanded the agent. “You people got no manners? You can’t barge in here like that!” Jiyong ignored him.

“I wanna talk to Mr. Terrell!” The big man’s face was rapidly turning from surprised to thunderous, but at Jiyong’s livid tone he patted his agent on the back and gestured to the door.

“Go on now, Larry, I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow.” Jiyong stepped aside just enough for the man to step past; they glared at each other. “Shut the door, for chrissakes,” snapped Terrell. Jiyong didn’t care who heard them, he was too angry, but he got some satisfaction from slamming it so hard the wine glasses in the cupboard rattled. “How dare you,” said Terrell, his big ears going redder. “This better be good, or-”

“How dare _you_!!” Jiyong yelled. His employer looked properly bamboozled now but no less ready to fire him. Jiyong didn’t care. “If you _ever_ put Seunghyun on as the cooch show talker again-!”

“Whoa, whoa,” interrupted Terrell, flapping his bejeweled hands downward in a quelling motion. “What’re you talking about?”

“You told Herman to make Seunghyun do cover work as a talker.” Jiyong almost spat the words. “As if that wasn’t the most mismatched job in the world!”

“I did. He needed teaching a lesson after that mishap with the fireworks: I hear he’s drinking too much. And turns out he’s doing rather a _good_ job, he’s got some flare I didn’t expect.”

“Touting the sideshow wasn’t enough?” Jiyong said, almost despairing now. “You had to have him sell my charms outside the cooch tent too?! You must’ve known how it’d hurt him!” Terrell stared at him. “Well if he has to do it one more night I’ll quit my act,” he promised. “You can keep your forty bucks and deal with my drooling ‘fans’ yourselves!”

“…When did this happen?”

“Just now! I won’t stand for it, Boss; it’s too cruel on both of us.”

“Jiyong, Jiyong,” crooned Terrell with a pacifying gesture. “I promise you I knew nothing about this.” Jiyong pursed his lips – there was nothing this guy _didn’t_ get wind of sooner or later! “I’m a businessman first,” Terrell reminded him. “You think I’d do anything that hurts the Circus?” The manager smiled. “That young man creates wonderful displays, I wouldn’t want him off his game – certainly we don’t want to lose him.”

“No we do not! Him knowing I’m working that show is bad enough…”

“Well, then this is all a misunderstanding! I didn’t give any instruction that he talk for the cooch show, it must have been a mix-up.” Jiyong stood there watching him narrowly and worked on slowing his breathing. Perhaps it _had_ been someone’s malicious idea of a joke; he thought of the albino Tomas again, and his lips thinned. “At the end of the week I’ll take him off orator duty altogether,” Terrell offered. “ _You_ just keep him off the sauce and I’m sure we’ll have no more problems.”

“I hope so,” said Jiyong darkly, and tugged the door open. “‘Cos if he gets pushed much further, at this rate he might explode – and _then_ you’ll see what’s bad for business.”

 

* * *

 

“Tabi, I gotta talk to you,” pleaded Jiyong when he located his lover the next morning after setup. Seunghyun was in the car that stored his firework supplies putting together what he needed for that day’s shows. The older man raised his eyebrows; Jiyong couldn’t see the rest of his face, it was covered with the bandanna, but those large eyes were expressive enough to show him Seunghyun was _not_ in a good mood.

“Yeah?” said Seunghyun, funneling red powder carefully into a tube. This was not encouraging.

“…I heard you last night.” Jiyong crouched down by the open door at a safe distance from the chemicals; he wanted to approach him but it was difficult with Seunghyun’s work a physical barrier between them. He thought if he could just get close enough he might be able to soothe his Tabi the same way he always had. Right now, though, Seunghyun probably wouldn’t let him. Seunghyun grunted beneath his mask. “Who told you to do it?” asked Jiyong gently.

“I dunno, some roustabout said I had to switch with _your_ talker.” Jiyong frowned: he hadn’t had the stones to confront Tomas, and it was pure speculation anyway. But someone was sure getting a kick outta making trouble.

“But…why didja agree?”

“I’d been drinking,” Seunghyun told him, not even sounding embarrassed about it now. “People have been telling me I’m actually good at that horrible job. Guess I wanted to see how good I could be.” He dropped his gaze back to his powders. “And your charms are easy to describe.” Jiyong pursed his lips, remembering the things Seunghyun had said. He’d wanted to protest, had been so angry, but now it came to it he couldn’t.

“…I’m so sorry,” he said instead. One handsome eyebrow shot up. “The gaffer said it wasn’t his idea so I dunno how it happened!” He swallowed. “But I know how hurt you must’ve been…”

“Yeah, I was hurt.” Seunghyun pushed a lock of hair off his forehead and continued his work. “But I’m hurt all the time so it didn’t make much difference.” Ahh, here came the same old fight again!

“I’m not trying to make you unhappy,” Jiyong told him solemnly. “I love you more than anything in the world! If you could only remember I’m not doing any of this to spite you… I mean…” Dammit, what could he say to console him? “I think you’re hurting _yourself_.” He quickly shut up and bit his lip: he hadn’t meant it to come out like that.

“…I know it,” said Seunghyun at last. “I know you weren’t trying to hurt me when you agreed to bare your all night after night to those goddamn wolves.” He met Jiyong’s eyes. “You weren’t thinking of me at all – and _that’s_ what stings.” Jiyong stayed quiet for a long time, considering this. It was true, when Terrell had first offered him the job Seunghyun had been an afterthought. But that wasn’t ‘cos he didn’t care about him! It was because he honestly hadn’t imagined it to be anyone else’s business but his own: his own body, his own time and energy. And he felt the same way now. If he couldn’t get Seunghyun to understand that, though…

“How’re we gunna resolve this?” he murmured. Seunghyun rubbed at his forehead.

“Just…give me some time. Maybe you’re right, I’m doing this to myself, but that doesn’t make it any easier. You do your thing and I’ll do mine, huh? But at the end of the season we are gonna think _very carefully_ about our future with this Circus. So you’d better use this time to consider what you’re doing – and what you want that future to be.”

“Okay,” whispered Jiyong. He knew it was the most reasonable response he could expect. Hesitantly he crawled closer and stretched out a hand over the top of the chemicals. Seunghyun regarded it for a long moment; then his gloved fingers touched Jiyong’s. It was brief, and left Jiyong only half comforted. Perhaps it was all he deserved.

 

* * *

 

Life on the road grew calmer for Jiyong after Seunghyun’s punishment as talker was over; their conversation in the storage car had left things in a weird limbo that stopped them fighting but also kept the younger man lonely – they still spoke but Seunghyun no longer sought him out as a real lover oughta, and Jiyong was too wary of ruining the peace to make any moves of his own. It was almost the first time in his life he hadn’t been able to fix things with sex, and he didn’t know any other strategies; even talking had just barely worked. Maybe Seunghyun was right and this was something that could only be mended by _time_.

Jiyong finished dressing one Saturday night and exited the cooch show tent after making sure there were no customers hanging around. He wondered what he oughta do now: in the old days he’d have met Seunghyun to go into town or shack up somewhere quiet so they could be intimate. He supposed he could go on his own or give up and hit the hay, but neither of those suited his mood. He was a curious combination of buzzed and weary: the tug-of-war between the fulfillment of doing this job and the uncomfortable knowledge that it made Seunghyun think less of him was really getting old.

“You seen Seunghyun?” he inquired, sticking his head into the G-top tent where Timtam and his colleagues were playing poker with Ed and the Lobster Man – it was tough for the more unusual sideshow performers to go into town even on two-day runs, so they mostly partied on the lot.

“Nope,” said Timtam disapprovingly without looking at him. “If you wanna spend time with him so bad you know what you gotta do. Raise you five.”

Jiyong withdrew and wandered on, feeling a bit maudlin and sorry for himself. The riggers’ car was empty so he gave up and went for a walk on the Midway. The roustabouts were done for the night and there was no show on Sundays; it left the half-dismantled public area looking bare and depressing, especially ‘cos he knew everyone else was out enjoying Saturday night with their buddies. Eventually he stumbled across some life out by the menagerie, where a young hostler was anxiously leading Gough the strongman into the tent. Bored and curious, Jiyong strolled in after them.

“What’s the deal?” Gough was saying. The menagerie was empty save for the three men and one round pony lying in the straw.

“He’s got founder,” said the boy, pointing at the little pony’s hooves. “Keeps flaring up ‘cos he’s too fat. He know’s it’ll hurt to walk so he won’t even try but I gotta stable him properly ‘til the farrier can look at him next town.”

“Ah, sure.” The strongman squatted down and with a grunt of effort bodily picked up the pony, who looked astonished. “Oh, hey kiddo,” he called in a casual aside to Jiyong; the younger man was standing well outta the way, knowing how much horses disliked him.

“Hi!” replied Jiyong, as usual watching this feat of strength with pleasure, and followed the small procession out towards the lead-stock car. The pony gave Jiyong a baleful glance, but the younger man was busy admiring Gough’s enormous hands and the way they held the animal so securely; it gave him a pleasant tingle to see. Gough deposited the pony in a stall and gave a nod to the grateful hostler before joining Jiyong outside.

“Lucky you didn’t go into town,” said the smaller man. Gough shrugged and went to wash his hands in a fire bucket.

“Sometimes you gotta have peace and quiet.” He glanced at Jiyong and perhaps guessed he was at a loose end. “Come for a drink?”

“…Sure,” said Jiyong, still watching his hands appreciatively. “Why not?”

He’d never been in a Big Top act’s private car before – well, half a car, he corrected himself as he looked around with interest. Gough’s place was nice but not exactly luxurious, and Jiyong judged that wasn’t a money thing but the kinda manly lifestyle that just didn’t notice fripperies like coasters and cushion covers. Whatever girl the strongman was seeing these days had made an effort to do some dusting and that was about it. Jiyong took a perch on a fold-out chair while Gough rinsed two glasses in the small sink – that _was_ luxury, though, he’d do just about anything to have his own washing space.

“You want soda?” asked Gough over his shoulder. “Or you drinkin’ the big-boy juice?” He produced a bottle that Jiyong recognized instantly as one of Seunghyun’s; the stuff was all over the train at this point, they better hope they didn’t get raided again.

“Yeah, that’ll do,” said Jiyong with a sigh. He wondered once more what Seunghyun was up to tonight, then after another look at the bottle stopped wondering: of course he’d be drinking with the riggers. Gough poured him three fingers’ worth of moonshine, gave him a measuring glance, and topped it off with lemonade. He took his own drink straight.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers! And thanks for, y’know, helping me out all the time,” Jiyong added. “I’d never have caught the flyers’ attention otherwise.”

“It’s good to do favors,” said Gough vaguely, and started talking about the Kentucky Wildcats. Jiyong drank his drink and pretended to know something about baseball while thinking what a tedious topic it was; then again, Gough had no particular need to entertain him: the responsibility to please lay with the smaller man. In an odd way it reminded him of the House, listening to his old clients talk business. But how much easier on the eye this guy was!

Jiyong stopped listening without any real awareness that he’d done so and indulgently let his eyes wander; it was easier now he’d had a drink or two. He felt no guilt about it ‘cos it was only a fantasy; still, it was a nice one, one he’d begun to imagine lately when glancing at those other men but had never allowed himself to fully envision. He ran his gaze over Gough’s startling frame as it lounged against the sink: the huge shoulders and trim waist, the bulge of his thighs and the muscles in his arms that seemed almost a caricature – nothing like the lean beauty of Seunghyun’s body but impressive all the same. More than impressive. Jiyong recalled their daily exercise routine and imagined Gough’s massive hands touching him, to position him or check him the way they always did; in his mind the touch became a caress, sweeping up to grasp his shoulders and hold him immobile. _Oh_ , he missed being touched so bad! He hadn’t had Seunghyun in his bed for an age. Gough would tower over him at close range, those arms that could lift him like a doll drawing him nearer without resistance. Would Jiyong even try to resist so much raw power? The imaginary strongman slid a hand between his thighs and ordered him to–

Jiyong shook himself outta the moment and back into the train car: that was probably far enough. He saw Gough had poured him another drink and was now looking at him with a puzzled expression.

“…Sorry,” mumbled Jiyong. “Guess I had too much already.”

“I s’pose you are pretty small.” The big man took his glass away. “You haven’t bulked up with the kind of training you’ve been doin’. Still,” he said proudly, “you got a nice outline.”

“Thanks!” said Jiyong, feeling a traitorous blush touch the tips of his ears. Gough looked down into his own glass as if it contained something that made him very thoughtful.

“…I heard you’re doin’ a side act,” he said eventually. Jiyong pulled a face to himself, then sighed – he was surprised Gough hadn’t found out before now. Vaguely sad, he wondered if it repulsed the other man, this man with sports paper clippings where there should be pictures and dumbbells where there oughta be furniture.

“Yeah. But just for the extra cash.” The strongman muttered something under his breath, then took a gulp of liquor and announced:

“…Wouldn’t mind seein’ it.”

“Huh?” said Jiyong cleverly. Gough was too tanned to go red but he looked real bashful, enough to make Jiyong think he hadn’t misheard.

“We’ve trained you quite hard – you prob’ly look pretty with no clothes on.” Jiyong stared at him wide-eyed. In a guttural grumble Gough added: “You’re pretty with ‘em, too.”

“Um,” said Jiyong, suddenly uneasy: he hadn’t thought his imagination was so powerful it could will his fantasies into reality! He wasn’t sure he wanted that at _all_.

“I know you like what you see,” the bigger man told him, vain as Jiyong himself. He hadn’t moved, and maybe this was all a harmless flirtation – a womanizer seeing how it felt to broaden his horizons – but all the same, Jiyong’s gaze was suddenly darting to the door.

“Everyone does,” he reminded Gough with a bright smile. Managing men had been his _job_ , he oughta be able to handle this one even if he was the size of a woolly mammoth. “Anyway, I better-” But Gough had spotted his movement: faster than Jiyong had thought possible for such a big guy he moved to intercept the smaller man, and before he could slip away Jiyong found himself caged against the wall beside the closed door. “…Hey now!” he protested, trying not to sound nervous and cursing himself because he’d thought Gough was so _sweet_.

“I know those cooch show chippies sell their favors after,” said the strongman in a hoarse voice; his oversize fingers rose to take Jiyong gently by the jaw, the other hand grasping both his wrists with no difficulty and pinning them over his head. “Won’t you do me one?” Jiyong’s blood was up and singing in his ears, his heart hammering: fear, anger, panic, and belated guilt that he’d even entertained this fantasy. Was there a hint of excitement there, too? No, there couldn’t be! He tried an experimental struggle; Gough looked reproachful.

“I like you, Jiyong,” he announced, restraining him without any effort at all. “Guess I have for a while. Can’t you consider it?”

“…I don’t do that,” managed the smaller man with a gasp as Gough’s thumb brushed his lower lip. “It’s not you, it’s just…”

“I never liked a boy before.” Gough moved closer, and Jiyong experienced another echo of his fantasy before it vanished in horror that he’d felt it. The man looked _embarrassed_ , but still arrogant enough to be confident Jiyong would agree. “I never got hard for a boy before.” Jiyong swallowed heavily. “C’mon, you gotta help me out – like I did for you. I won’t tell anyone, promise.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You _do_. Come on, I know you’re easy. All the others are.”

“…What do you want me to do?” asked Jiyong through gritted teeth, playing hard for time and trying to remember what he’d done on the last occasion something like this had happened – but even in the House there’d rarely been anything _this_ bad. Not for the first time he cursed the fact that his pretty face attracted men who normally were lovers of women, rather than actual queer guys who didn’t get all defensive about their masculinity and take it out on _him_. McGurn had been the absolute worst but this sure wasn’t any picnic. Gough’s hand was at his throat now, almost spanning his chest as he rested it there.

“Your heart’s goin’ like a rabbit’s.” The strongman sounded excited.

“Of course it is.” Jiyong whimpered as Gough’s bulk pressed against him; he could feel his cock hard against his waist. “You’re scaring the shit outta me!”

“You don’t haveta be scared,” murmured Gough, and if Jiyong had been capable of laughing he would’ve laughed at that. “Just do somethin’ for me…”

“Like _what_?”

“I wanna see you naked.” Already dilated with drink, the man’s pupils got wider. “And then…I want you to put it in your mouth.”

“All right!” snapped Jiyong, searching for an inch of backward space against the car wall as Gough leaned closer: he was so _heavy_. “I’ll do it. Well?!” he said impatiently when the strongman just stood there with his pelvis locked against Jiyong’s belly, free hand roaming over his ass and between his legs. Gough looked at him, stupid with lust. “Are you gunna let go my hands or not? I can’t do any of those things from up here.”

“Yeah…yeah.” Gough released him abruptly and hemmed him in on either side instead, forearms against the wall. “Show me how you strip for the rubes!” This would have to do, thought Jiyong, fighting to steady his thoughts and his trembling hands. He slid them down his torso, teasing, keeping the huge man’s eyes locked with his. Taking a bracing gulp of air he reached for Gough’s fly and with his left hand gently cupped his erection; Gough dragged in a gasp that sounded like a bellows and enclosed Jiyong’s waist completely in his grip. Jiyong smiled shakily up at him and withdrew his right hand from his own pocket: a second later Gough’s whole face changed.

“I did say I didn’t want to,” Jiyong told him through gritted teeth. “You gotta learn better manners if you wanna be a _real_ man.” Gough had frozen, which was pretty much all a guy had to do when the blade of a pocket knife was pressed against his balls. “You better believe I’ve done worse before,” Jiyong warned him in case he even thought about moving. He looked up into the strongman’s face, showed him with his eyes that he’d done murder.

“Jiyong-”

“Take your hands off me,” instructed Jiyong, voice calm to hide his racing pulse. “Nice and slow or you’re gunna wind up a gelding. Put ‘em flat on the wall. That’s right… And carefully lean away.”

“…You did want it.” Gough had the gall to look confused – had he really never had anyone refuse him before?! “I saw.” Jiyong wasted a second’s regret on this because in his imagination he _had_ , and no doubt the jerk had picked up on it.

“But unlike you,” he explained, nudging the knife a little harder to get his full attention, “I know my brain is smarter than my body; so I _said no_. But you didn’t listen, and here we are. Now, I’m gunna open the door – yeah, you better shuffle over too – and if you budge so much as an inch in my direction I’ll scream ‘fire’!” There was no better way to get a bunch of Cirkies moving fast.

“You know somethin’?” said Gough resentfully, as Jiyong unhooked the door and swung it open with a sigh of relief. “You got more balls than I thought. I won’t try it again.”

“And you’ve got less,” Jiyong retorted. “But I guess you can keep ‘em for now.” And before the strongman could say another word he leaped out of the doorway and dashed away from the train, still clutching the pocket knife like a talisman. Only when Gough’s car was out of sight did he let himself start crying.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong was hiding out in the dim sideshow dressing room, soothing his wrists with a wet cloth and regaining his cool when Seunghyun found him. He wasn’t sure how; no doubt _someone_ had seen him running or the tears on his face, and they’d probably tattled out of concern or simple nosiness. Quickly he dropped the cloth and rolled his sleeves down, covering the evidence.

“What is it?” demanded Seunghyun immediately, the tent flap swinging closed behind him. Jiyong smiled up at him – the serene masking smile he’d perfected by the time he was sixteen.

“Nothing. But it’s nice to see you.” Seunghyun dropped into a crouch beside him, eyes on his left arm. Quickly Jiyong stopped cradling it.

“You’re white as a sheet.” Before Jiyong could stop him the bigger man took his hand and pulled back his sleeve, revealing the bruises. Seunghyun’s face went dark in a way Jiyong hadn’t seen since his time with McGurn.

“Don’t, Tabi, don’t!” hissed Jiyong, grabbing him and holding him close. It’d been a long time since Seunghyun had an episode and Jiyong didn’t want to force him into another one now, not when they’d only just begun their new truce.

“ _Who was it?_ ” Seunghyun growled – Jiyong could smell the liquor on him and his tension rose a few notches. “One of your cooch show sickos?! Just say the word, I’ll call a Hey Rube and get all the Cirkies together and we’ll make him _pay_!”

“I handled it.” Jiyong held him tighter, leaned down and kissed his shaking fingers – anything to soothe him. “It’s not gunna happen again.”

“What else did he do to you?!” It wasn’t working, Seunghyun tipsy was impossible to reason with. Jiyong bit his lip.

“Nothing – look,” he whispered, letting go just long enough to fish the knife outta his pocket. “He wanted something I didn’t wanna give. I showed him this, explained that if I _did_ hurt him it wouldn’t be the first time and I wouldn’t think twice about it! He told me I had balls and left me alone. That’s it: over. He’s too fond of his own skin to try it again.”

“Again?” Seunghyun’s wide eyes narrowed, and there was that telltale vein at his temple that told Jiyong he could go off any minute: the smaller man had never seen it, not for real, and he didn’t want to. “He’s not a local? _Who_ , then? A roustabout, a tech? A kinker?!” Jiyong scowled. “Yes,” said the older man, sounding absolutely outraged. He tugged Jiyong’s wrist closer to the light and stared at the huge finger marks. His eyes widened. “…I know who.”

“Tabi, wait.” The grip on his arm was hurting now.

“Can’t be Sky High,” muttered Seunghyun; he wasn’t listening. “He’s a lamb. Only one other man’s got hands like that – and he’s sure fond of his own dirty hide!” He released Jiyong and jumped to his feet, then shoved his way out of the tent. Half afraid and half exasperated Jiyong hurried after him.

“ _Don’t_!” he barked, reaching for him, but before he could get a hold he was grasped round the middle by a firm pair of arms and tugged to a halt.

“Leave him to it,” advised a voice; he recognized it as Edgar. Jiyong twisted round and glared at the clown’s bare face. One of his brothers – Jiyong always got them mixed up – appeared at his elbow.

“Lay off!” ordered Jiyong, squirming; Seunghyun was almost out of sight, heading for the kinkers’ territory. “He can’t go tugging Gough’s tail, he’ll get flattened!” Edgar held on.

“It’s his prerogative, ain’t it?” said the brother. “Gotta be practic’ly part of the job description for anyone who wants to be _your_ man.”

“What?!”

“Defendin’ your honor.” The clown prodded Jiyong in the chest. “He oughta be used to it by now.” He shrugged. “What, you think any conversation you have in a tent is private? I guess about seven people heard that just now.” Jiyong cursed himself for not thinking quick enough to have spoken Korean. “And the kid’s right – he’s gotta do it.”

“Bullshit!” said Jiyong, incredulous. “What is this, the Middle Ages? And I’m not some little girl, I don’t need defending!”

“Well, too late now,” Edgar told him equably, and finally let go. “So you just trot back to your bunk, and think on what your antics are doing to that boy.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong _was_ thinking on it, to avoid going batty worrying about Seunghyun: specifically, about which of the three of them he was angrier at – Gough, of course, but he’d been easily dealt with. Next in line was himself: not for getting jumped or getting violent but because there’d been one single instance when he’d considered giving in to the request, when it’d still _been_ a request. He was almost glad now that the strongman had shown his true colors: the rage Jiyong felt had made any desire disappear. The last candidate for his ire was…was stumbling into the car.

“Seunghyun!!” Jiyong slid off Sky High’s bunk – everyone else had gone drinking round one of the fires – and pulled Seunghyun bodily inside, thanking any gods around that he was still mobile. “What happened?!” He maneuvered the taller man into the lamplight and groaned at what it showed him. Seunghyun flinched as he reached up to touch his face.

“Fucking hurts,” he mumbled indistinctly.

“…Oh, Tabi,” said Jiyong, not sure if he felt more resentful or regretful. Seunghyun blinked his spectacular black eye and merely looked resigned.

“Yeah. That was stupid. But when I saw you were hurt I just…”

“Told you,” Jiyong replied. He took Seunghyun’s hand gently – the knuckles were split. “C’mon, we’ll go to the cat car, get some meat to put on it.”

Once Seunghyun was sitting with his head tipped back and a raw steak slapped across his eye[14], he spoke up.

“Are you really all right?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jiyong assured him. “I’ve been handling men half my life!” For some reason Seunghyun didn’t look comforted. He stared at Jiyong outta his good eye for a long time. Then:

“…That bastard said you gave him the come-on.”

“I never!” retorted Jiyong. “All I did was train with him!” The lone panther who’d been left at this end of the cat car – she had a bad tooth and wasn’t in any mood to be around the others – growled as if in agreement.

“That’s what I said.” Seunghyun winced. “But he told me you’ve been _looking_ at him.” Jiyong stared.

“And that’s meant to be an excuse to get me up against a wall?!” There was nobody who _didn’t_ look at the strongman, he practically lived on it.

“Course not – that’s why I hit him. Not that it had any effect.” Seunghyun paused. “But…have you been?” At the sight of Jiyong’s flush his handsome face turned even more woebegone. “You _have_.”

“No, Tabi, I…” Jiyong trailed off; he didn’t want to flat-out _lie_ to Seunghyun, and he couldn’t deny that his admiration of Gough’s strength had not been entirely platonic lately.

“I figured,” said Seunghyun in a low voice. “First the cooch show, now this.” He took a pained breath and Jiyong’s throat contracted. “When did I stop being enough?”

“ _I love you_ , Seunghyun,” the smaller man stated fervently, almost before he’d stopped speaking. “Of course you’re enough!”

“Not enough to stop you ogling other men.” Seunghyun shifted the steak and grimaced. “And what else? Is that why you really joined the cooch show, ‘cos one lover’s not sufficient for you?”

“ _No_.”

“No _what_?” demanded Seunghyun, the jealousy bleeding into his voice. Jiyong was used to that tone, he’d heard it from tricks his whole career. But they weren’t in the House anymore and he didn’t know quite how to respond to it: ‘it’s my job’ wouldn’t cut it now. His silence only seemed to aggravate Seunghyun further. “Tell me straight: have you been with anyone else?!”

“No.” Seunghyun sighed, then took a shaky breath.

“But you’ve imagined it.” Jiyong flushed deeper.

“…Yes.” He swallowed. “I love you, Tabi, more than anything. Only, lately _variety_ …” How to explain it to someone with such focused devotion as this man, when Jiyong himself barely understood it? “I’ve never been with just one person,” he tried. “At least, not since the very beginning. The way I learned about desire – about sex, anyway – was that it isn’t only a two-way street; it’s a whole goddamn metropolis.” The allusion to his past made Seunghyun’s nostrils flare.

“Insull again.”

“Shut up. This is about _me_.”

“Isn’t it always!” snapped Seunghyun. “All right, how would _you_ feel? If I was lusting over some woman, if I took her to bed?”

“If you did,” said Jiyong fiercely, “I’d beat you into the ground.” Seunghyun gave a scoff of disbelief, as if Jiyong was the world’s biggest hypocrite.

 “You didn’t care when it was Lin and Bethany!”

“You were drunk,” pointed out Jiyong. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I still did it. So why would you care if I did again? Why do _you_ have a license to toy with whoever you please but not me?!”

“Because,” said the smaller man, searching for words simple enough for this dumb man to understand, “…because if you did it now it’d mean you _felt_ something for her.” Jiyong knew his Tabi was too principled to bed another person merely outta spite or lust. Seunghyun stared at him out of one eye. “…And I don’t think I could bear that.” Jiyong dropped his gaze.

“Whereas _you_ -” began Seunghyun, still somewhat incredulously.

“I don’t feel anything in particular for any other guy. Fantasizing never hurt anyone, and even if I _did_ take it further it’d just be…quenching a thirst. Not that I’m planning to – I virtually castrated Gough just now when he tried it!” The older man looked pained, and Jiyong could kick himself because why could he not be more articulate?! He had no wish to harm Seunghyun – not ever. “Like you and the liquor,” he tried. “You don’t _need_ it; but you like a drink all the same. Adds a bit of spice to your nights, no?”

“What does that make _me_?” snapped Seunghyun. “A glass of warm milk to put you to sleep?”

“ _Water_ ,” stated Jiyong firmly, seeing as his lover was determined to run with the metaphor. Seunghyun’s lip curled. “Not the way you’re thinking,” he went on – he knew how Seunghyun would take that comparison. “But ‘cos I can’t do without you.” He reached out a hesitant hand; the bigger man twitched but allowed the contact. “…You’re life to me, Tabi,” he said softly. “Tell me you understand that.” There was a long silence.

“Just so you know,” said Seunghyun in an odd, hoarse voice, “I wouldn’t. Even if you did something, _I_ wouldn’t. I couldn’t – not anymore. I dunno if that’s going to influence you any, but…” He trailed off. There was a silence, broken only by the panther’s grumbling.

“Then is my body _exclusively_ yours?” asked Jiyong after some thought; he really wanted to hear this ‘cos in all their arguing over the cooch show they’d never actually talked about _fucking_. “…I didn’t realize that’s what this was gunna be,” he said more gently. “We were never like that in the House. Is that what you thought from the start?” Seunghyun took a furious breath, but bit back whatever he was going to say; the corners of his mouth contracted and with dismay Jiyong knew he was fighting a sob. He closed his good eye for a moment.

“I thought that. I _assumed_ it.” Seunghyun’s tone was bitter – at Jiyong or himself?

“Why?” Whatever it was, it was blindingly obvious to the older man, Jiyong could see that, and he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry anymore.

“…Because we left together,” Seunghyun told him, deep gaze now searching his face. “Because we _are_ together.”

“ _Yes_ ,” agreed Jiyong at once; he set his hand atop Seunghyun’s raw fingers; they twitched but didn’t throw him off. “Only…I thought being together was about who I _love_ – not which bodies I can and can’t touch.” Seunghyun let out a shuddering sigh. “I guess we oughta have compared definitions earlier,” allowed Jiyong. He stroked Seunghyun’s knuckles with his thumb: the tendons were tense and taut as wire, but to his surprise the bigger man came back to life and took his hand gently.

“Oh, Jiyong…” said Seunghyun, and met his eyes. Jiyong felt a constriction in his chest – it was painful to see his Tabi this miserable, and yet… “What do we do?” asked Seunghyun helplessly. “You were in that House too long.”

“I know I’m not normal.” Jiyong tightened his grip and felt Seunghyun’s desperate returning pressure. “I just didn’t think I was _wrong_. All this time…” The tears welled up in his own eyes, less at any notion of his own guilt than at his beloved’s distress.

“It’s not your fault,” came Seunghyun’s staunch reply. Jiyong privately agreed, though for different reasons: he knew his sexuality, his desire was built on a complicated mix of influences, yes, but not entirely – some of it was just _there_ , in his bones. He knew exactly who Seunghyun blamed. Jiyong wasn’t keen on being painted entirely as the victim of unfortunate circumstances – he thought more highly of himself than that – but his lover seemed unable to comprehend him any other way.

“It doesn’t matter,” murmured Jiyong, because it only made Seunghyun angry to think about Mr. Insull and fighting over it wouldn’t help.

“You’re right.” Abruptly enough to make him gasp Seunghyun tugged him forward and kissed him. Jiyong heard himself make a small, rapturous noise, responding to the violent urgency of the caress in a way he hadn’t to Gough’s; it was over too soon but it stopped him crying. “I love you,” proclaimed Seunghyun. He looked no happier than before. “So we have to _fix_ ourselves.”

“Agreed,” said Jiyong breathlessly, wanting another kiss. Seunghyun’s strong fingers caught his chin and prevented him, and in a portentous tone the older man warned him:

“Because I won’t last much longer like this.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 14Slapping a steak on a black eye is another of those weird old-timey first aid myths (like Seunghyun disinfecting Jiyong’s wounds with whiskey in Bombshell) that don’t really work; but it’s seeped so far into popular culture (from old cartoons like Popeye) it’s become a common ‘old-fashioned medicine’ image. The only reason people possibly thought it was a good idea is ‘cos steak is cold and soft so it moulds round the contours of the face to soothe the bruise better. But actually it’s more likely to give you an e coli infection ^^; (Don’t worry, Seunghyun will be fine!)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> This chapter's title song is _'Coquette'_ , performed by Guy Lombardo and His Royal Canadians in 1928.
> 
> Next chapter: Seunghyun reaches the end of his rope...  
>  Thank you as always for reading and sharing your thoughts :)  
> 


	7. Keepin' Out Of Mischief Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong finds out just how much the both of them can take.

Naturally Seunghyun’s cartoonish injury didn’t go unnoticed and the next day every nosy asshole was making guesses about what’d happened, which Jiyong figured couldn’t make his mental state any better. Edgar and his brothers seemed to be obligingly keeping their mouths shut but now felt free to indulge in a lot of tutting and head-shaking in Jiyong’s direction. Timtam had put two and two together as soon as he saw Seunghyun’s shiner and was following Jiyong about, reeling off men he guessed might’ve caused it. Jiyong was almost flattered that the dwarf thought he’d cut such a swathe through the male Cirkies – but not enough to keep from yelling at him by noon. He didn’t tell Timtam what had nearly happened to him; privately Jiyong figured he deserved _some_ damn sympathy, but he knew most people didn’t think like that: they’d say he’d led the strongman on. And his own fantasies before it’d happened were making him wonder if he _had_. …Still, though! It was no excuse: he’d made it clear right away that he didn’t want any part of it.

It went without saying that Jiyong’s exercise sessions with Gough had come to an unceremonious end. The younger man walked warily into the Big Top the morning after and had a short burst of anger-panic-freeze at the sight of the strongman lifting weights in a distant corner, apparently unaffected by whatever punch Seunghyun had managed to lay on him. Gough ignored him completely, so Jiyong had some hope that his warning had been effective; either that or the big ox’s pride was stinging. Jiyong jogged over to Center Ring where Yuyan’s troupe now had their spot; time to find out if he was still welcome. He was doing his stretches when the Chinese flyer floated down beside him in her hoop.

“You look sick,” she stated once her rigger had got her at eye level. She peered over at Gough’s faraway figure. “You argued with the big man?”

“Kinda,” said Jiyong diplomatically. Perhaps the high-ranking kinkers hadn’t gotten to hear about any of this: he was vain, but not enough to imagine his love life even fell within their notice. Then again, Seunghyun hadn’t yet turned up to set his fireworks. They’d hardly miss it when he did, and most of them liked him.

“You know his exercises,” Yuyan told him in her short way. “Do by yourself. And if you want, now I can teach you for real.”

“Yes!” Jiyong felt his face light up through his troubles. “Please!” Yuyan nodded.

“O-kay.” She pointed upward. “Rope, hoop, trapeze. For now one hour, every morning with me.” She twisted her body around the metal ring into a fluid, impossible pose and gave Jiyong a look that reminded him of his strictest elementary school teacher – the only one who’d managed to get him to learn the alphabet. “From today you are _my_ play-thing.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong hadn’t spoken with Seunghyun for two days. Sure, they were doing some pretty long jumps between overnight stops and that kept everyone on the hop, but even between performances Jiyong couldn’t seem to find him. He was flummoxed at first: if he’d been attacked in any way in the past his lover would’ve been glued to his side afterward to protect and comfort him. He supposed it was only natural that Seunghyun would want some space to sort his head out – but Jiyong wasn’t inclined to give it to him. What if the older man decided he couldn’t handle someone with Jiyong’s moral values after all? It was dangerous to let him think too clearly. But in the end it was Seunghyun who came to _him_.

“Wanna go for a walk?” offered Seunghyun as Jiyong sat forlornly drinking coffee after the matinée; it’d been one week exactly since the disaster with Gough. Jiyong nodded and didn’t try to hide his eagerness. His lover led him across the tracks and away from the lot and the town of Boulder, and soon they were in woodland. It was a lovely day, the sun shining democratically on Jiyong’s nervous self and the cottonwood trees and Seunghyun’s fading bruise. Seunghyun was picking his way in silence; occasionally he’d shorten his stride to let Jiyong catch up, and once took his hand to help him across a bramble thicket – but he dropped it again right after. Jiyong was aching like hell from his first aerial lessons with Yuyan, though it wasn’t enough to distract him from worrying: why was Seunghyun being so quiet? Why was he bringing him all the way out here? And, most pressingly, why was the bigger man sober as a judge right now? What if he told Jiyong he thought they should – _no_. No way.

“What about here?” Jiyong suggested when they came to a small and pleasantly burbling stream, dappled light glinting off the water.

“Sure.” Seunghyun took off his jacket and spread it so Jiyong could sit down, and the courtesy of the gesture both charmed and bothered him. The older man pulled a handkerchief out of the coat’s pocket and opened it to reveal cookies studded with dried fruit and sugar crystals; how could he be so thoughtful right now? Jiyong took one but his unease grew.  He peeked at Seunghyun out of the corner of his eye and saw him take a bite then tip his face up to the sky and close his eyes. His lashes were so beautiful – all of him was.

“Have you been okay this last week, Tabi?” Jiyong asked.

“Mm-hmm. I was waiting for you to come talk to me, but you didn’t. So here we are. And it makes sense that I be the one to reach out – _again_ – ‘cos seems I’m the only one seeing problems.” Jiyong knew that wasn’t an apology.

“I know we have a problem,” he said softly.

“Then where’ve you been all week?”

“Just…busy.” Jiyong shuffled closer to convey his earnestness. “But I _was_ looking for you, too!” Seunghyun sniffed and took another bite. “I know we gotta work on this – we both said it. So let’s start, baby, I don’t wanna fight anymore. But how do we fix it?”

“…You really want to discuss this?” said Seunghyun, a hint of uncertainty and even suspicion coloring his tone. Jiyong nodded. “Okay.” He turned to look at the smaller man. “Will you consider quitting the cooch show now?” Jiyong thought about everything Terrell had said to him, and about the pleasure, and most of all the extra cash he was sending his mother every month.

“No,” he stated, and Seunghyun closed his eyes again. “Not ‘til I can quit the sideshow too – ‘til I get a spot in the Big Top.”

“When’s that supposed to be?” said the bigger man tightly; Jiyong saw him draw back.

“I dunno, I’m working on it.” He hadn’t told Seunghyun about his aerial training yet; what if it didn’t pan out? “And Tabi, that’s not really the problem, not for you – what _you_ hate is me being ‘loose’; but none of the cooch show gawks has ever attracted me that way, I’d never go with one of ‘em: they’re too pathetic.”

“What about that slimeball Gough, then? And however many more of these physical prodigies you can’t take your eyes off?”

“You _know_ I rejected him,” Jiyong said entreatingly. “He _assaulted_ me!” The other man nodded, jawline angry, but otherwise didn’t respond.

“I think…” Seunghyun pushed his hands through his hair. “It’d help us both if you could explain to me _why_ : what is it about these bastards that’s got you so hot? And why _now_ , this season?” Jiyong nodded, but he still hadn’t been able to pin it down, other than that recently he was hugely attracted to strength and dominance – at least, when _he_ invited them.

“I don’t know. Something about power…but I dunno where it comes from, I can’t think what’s got me needing it now…”

“Then you can’t guarantee you won’t act on it!”

“I guess not.” Jiyong bit his lip. “ I’m trying to be what you want, I swear. But if I can’t even explain it to myself, how can I guarantee anything?” He swallowed. “You’ll either hafta accept that, Tabi, or…don’t.”

“ _Jiyong_. I brought you out here away from the damn Circus to really try and sort this out! But you’re not meeting me halfway.”

“I am: I’m trying to _understand_ – why I’m like this, how we could find the answer together.”

“…It’s not enough,” said Seunghyun. Beside them the stream bubbled and danced joyfully, throwing the older man’s stillness into sharp relief. Jiyong took a breath and said the words he hadn’t been able to think about on the way here.

“Are you telling me it’s over?” His chest burned as he spoke. Seunghyun turned away from the tactless stream and looked at him wildly.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“But _you’re_ the one who-” Jiyong cut himself off as Seunghyun held up a hand like he literally _couldn’t_ listen.

“I _promised you_ ,” Seunghyun began in a low, vehement voice. “I said I’d look after you the rest of my life. Or don’t you remember?” Of course Jiyong remembered: Seunghyun had vowed it the day the younger man had finally agreed to run away with him. But surely he hadn’t imagined being this miserable when he’d said it! “I’m not backing out,” he went on, tossing the remains of his cookie at the stream like it’d done something to offend him. “I love you so bad, Jiyong, and not only that – I have a responsibility.” Something struck him. “…Like you and your dad. Can’t quit supporting _him_ , can you? Regardless of the pain.”

“I don’t want to cause you pain!” Jiyong told him, his throat tight and his eyes pricking at the comparison.

“Well, you are. But I’m not gonna leave you.”

“Then what?” After all this, thought Jiyong, they were back at the beginning – and both of them with added wounds.

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait ‘til _you_ figure out your answer: why you want to do these things that hurt me. I can’t help with that.” Seunghyun leaned back on his elbows and gave his near-tearful lover an empty smile. “And I plan to drink ‘til you find out!”

 

* * *

 

They walked back together from that bright little place by the stream. Jiyong hadn’t felt so alone since the House; after their discussion Seunghyun had become gentlemanly and remote again, as if he was cocooning himself from further outrages upon his heart ‘til the day Jiyong got his shit together. They’d parted without any plans to meet up again, and the younger man didn’t know if Seunghyun intended to cross paths with him at all: their spheres of work were separated so far by the Midway and the train that the only time Jiyong was likely to run into him was in the cookhouse line. The thought depressed him something awful.

Flora took charge of him for the evening show; she knew something was wrong but wouldn’t let him out of performing to his highest standard, so Jiyong pushed his cauldron of troubles down and plastered it over with makeup. The usual gillies gawked at him with disgust or curiosity or uncertain lust, and in a few of the Boulder factory men Jiyong found those forms that still drew his attention, even after everything: men like that cooch show enforcer, who stared at him like they could and would grab him and bring him to a standstill. He couldn’t think why that still attracted him, not now Gough had… After that he tried not to look, and he got through the act without cracking.

As he and Flora finished and the sideshow shut its doors he heard the Big Top band start up, but he knew not even the Spec or the aerialists would make him feel better tonight. He left his partner and the other oddities as if he was going for his nightly stroll but ducked into the dark and made for the cooch tent. The showgirls trickled in and changed beside him into their easily-removable costumes, then sat around smoking and making half-assed conversation about fashion and who they were dating and where they’d all be headed come end of season. Looking at them – and himself – Jiyong found it hard to believe men could find the sight of them titillating: they were all so _normal_. He felt at home with them, felt that he was normal too, whatever Seunghyun said: they were the only ones he’d opened up to about what had happened, and they’d _understood_. But when his turn started and he found himself drunk and validated and almost hard from the intense gazes of the audience he figured maybe he wasn’t after all. It was true what he’d said, all the same: _these_ rubes did nothing for him compared to those other bodies that excited his more complicated desires; all they could provide were several sets of eyes.

He went right to bed after that, ignoring his bunkmates’ silent scoldings, and in another hour the tear-down was complete and the train was carrying them to a different town. And yet when Jiyong woke up he found the same old problems waiting for him.

The only place he forgot everything was in the air. Over the next few days he developed a fiery love for Yuyan, simply ‘cos she enabled him to reach it. Jiyong knew that on her side she viewed him as something to do, maybe a handy assistant if she could knock some competence into him. So they trained, and every day that he mastered a new skill he was allowed higher – always with the safety rig, of course. When Jiyong could finally swing from the hoop by the backs of his knees and gaze down at her upturned face small as a daisy in the ring far below him, he actually laughed with joy. It felt like it had been a long time since he’d laughed at all.

“Don’t tell anyone outside the tent we do this yet,” Yuyan cautioned him at the end of their session one morning. Jiyong nodded, wobbled a bit on the trapeze he was standing on, and fell off; her rigger hauled on the mechanic cable and he bounced to a stop ten feet from the floor. “The boss will think we waste time,” she added as if nothing had happened; Jiyong had fallen off so many times in the first few days he was no longer afraid of it at all.

“Fine by me.” Jiyong didn’t want Seunghyun knowing anyway – at least, not ‘til he had a hope of doing something practical with it.

“But if you master the basics maybe I let you pass me my trapeze sometime, and he will see you are useful.” Jiyong beamed, mercifully putting the older man from his mind.

“In the show?!”

“Mm.” The small woman climbed into her hoop and did a handstand on it, dropping elegantly into the splits. “Go get me tea, will you?” she instructed without breaking her slow, balletic movements. _That_ was what Jiyong wanted to learn, proper routines, how to put all these tricks together into a performance that would dazzle everyone who saw it. He knew if he wanted that he’d have to earn it, so he hurried off to the cookhouse.

He was on his way back with a cup of earthy Chinese tea that smelled like the stuff his mom used to make – so many memories for such a little scent! – when he heard Seunghyun’s deep voice. _Oh_ , that voice! So dark and luscious, and Jiyong hadn’t heard it in _days_. He poked his head cautiously round the side of a tent, and to his surprise – and vague alarm – saw his beloved sitting on an upturned bucket next to Timtam. Jiyong knew damn well whose side his friend was on regarding the cooch act; was that nosy little prick warning Seunghyun off him?! The two were sitting close together, obviously sharing a bottle and pretending they weren’t. The taller man’s stance looked defensive: hands pressed between his knees and handsome eyebrows drawn down in a scowl. Timtam was talking at him energetically, though too quietly for Jiyong to hear him. It couldn’t be anything nice, thought the eavesdropper darkly – and if Timtam wasn’t such a good boxer Jiyong would certainly consider kicking his ass later.

“–What the hell?!” Seunghyun suddenly exclaimed, either furious or gobsmacked. The dwarf passed the bottle and he took several restorative gulps, then lowered his voice and began to give the other man what looked like a severe talking-to. Timtam waved him off and grinned; Seunghyun leaned forward angrily. Jiyong then saw Timtam make an _extremely_ suggestive gesture, followed by a series of others that were surprisingly descriptive and which made Seunghyun’s mouth open wider and wider in what seemed to be utter astonishment. Jiyong couldn’t suppress a snigger in spite of himself: his poor Tabi looked traumatized. He wondered in relief exactly what Timtam was telling him – whatever it was, it didn’t _look_ like a warning, more a filthy joke, and he had plenty of those.

Jiyong watched ‘til someone patted him on the calf and the sideshow’s Frog Girl[15] – a simply horrible title for a bright and witty woman, who could play the banjo like a champion even if she _didn’t_ have any legs – indicated that he was in her way. Jiyong stepped aside for a second, but she was followed by her current boyfriend and two brass band members, and Jiyong figured that’d be enough people to put an end to Timtam and Seunghyun’s very interesting conversation. He realized he was letting Yuyan’s tea get cold and trotted smoothly off before she could give him an earful. But he decided to have it out with Timtam; if only to find out if Seunghyun was okay.

 

As Jiyong oughta have guessed, trying to have Timtam cooperate was like a…a broken pencil: _pointless_ [16]. That same night the dwarf was so drunk by the time Jiyong got done with the cooch show he barely knew who the younger man was, never mind what he wanted. The morning after that he had a hangover and almost bit Jiyong’s head off, and after _that_ it was rehearsal and work and then the same old etcetera. When Timtam did at last turn up in his bed sober he simply told Jiyong to take a hike – that he’d only been _comforting_ the poor guy who had the bad luck to be fucking the most self-centered flirt in the Circus.

“Oh, you were not,” groused Jiyong from under his blanket as the train rattled them ever onward. “Also, fuck you!”

“Guys, go to sleep,” came Sky High’s long-suffering voice – the giant’s bunk was sandwiched between Timtam on top and Jiyong underneath, which was hardly anyone’s idea of a peaceful night.

“Yeah, shut up, Timtam,” called Jiyong. Timtam just started snoring.

As it turned out, Jiyong would discover what his small friend had been telling Seunghyun the very next week; but not before something happened that made him think his lover had finally reached his breaking point.

 

* * *

 

They were almost ready to roll out: tear-down was finished and boarding underway. Jiyong couldn’t remember where they were headed next but it didn’t matter, the sites all looked the same these days. He’d got dressed after his cooch act and was helping Yuyan’s rigger lug her cables and kit back to one of the baggage cars now the Wild West Show was done, but he’d fallen behind – who knew rope was so heavy?!

“Sorry!” he panted, bustling up to the car and the canvasman tapping his foot in the dark doorway; the rigger had disappeared already. The man nodded and leaned down, scooping the heavy mass of equipment off Jiyong’s shoulders with easy wiry strength and stowing it in its proper place. He jumped down, slammed the door. “Thanks for waiting,” said Jiyong, and offered him a cigarette. The canvasman nodded again and took it; evidently not a big talker. They walked down in silence toward the sleeping cars.

“Like your act,” said the man, proving him wrong. Jiyong clenched his jaw – even the roustabouts knew about the cooch show now? “You got a nice voice when you do them duets.”

“Oh!” The younger man unbent and gave him a grin. He hadn’t had a normal compliment for some time, and from such an unlikely source! His companion took off his flat cap and absently wiped his forehead with it; you hardly ever saw these guys smiling, they worked too hard, but his lined face wore a pleasant expression. “If you’ve got a request, lemme know,” Jiyong offered. “I’ll sing it for you next time.” The canvasman nodded again and finally cracked a smile, making him laugh: _this_ was the kind of fan he wanted.

Jiyong was about to ask his new acquaintance his name before he lost him in the roll-out when a hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and yanked him round. For a horrible instant he thought it was Gough, but no, this hand was way too familiar, and when he’d got his bearings he found himself nose to nose with Seunghyun.

“What the hell?!” complained Jiyong. Then he met the bigger man’s eyes and clammed up: Seunghyun looked _mad_.

“This is you ‘thinking about it’?!” Seunghyun snarled, his fingers biting deeper. “Not a week and you’re trying it on with the nearest guy with muscles?!”

“What’re you talking about, I was just saying thanks!” Jiyong took Seunghyun’s gripping hand in both his own and tried to pry it off. Normally he wouldn’t have a lot of trouble, his lover wasn’t _that_ much stronger than him and Jiyong had been exercising, but now he couldn’t budge him.

“I know exactly how you say _thank you_!! _”_ Seunghyun was drunk, he realized – not blind drunk but enough to stop him seeing the perfectly innocent truth; and perhaps enough to draw him to the edge. Jiyong looked behind him for some validation but the canvasman had disappeared into the night. He didn’t blame him. “You’re killing me, Jiyong,” Seunghyun told him in a growl, snapping him back round. His voice was loud and emotional, liquor tears if ever Jiyong heard them. “After everything I said to you, right here in the open you’re looking for some animal to roll you over and-”

He didn’t finish: Jiyong slapped him, not ‘cos he was offended but because he knew Seunghyun was rapidly boiling over. The older man stared at him; Jiyong held his breath, then cursed silently as he saw it hadn’t stemmed his hysteria but merely made it less loud. Without another word Seunghyun backed him up ‘til he stumbled against the nearest car, then lifted him into the doorway.

“ _In_ ,” said Seunghyun through gritted teeth, and climbed up after him. It was the canvas car, where they’d spent so many happy hours in the past. Jiyong heard a whistle sound, though it might be in his own head: he’d never seen Seunghyun like this but he knew people who had, and he realized he might at last be witnessing one of his episodes – a _real_ one. He jumped to his feet. Seunghyun grabbed him again and looked down into his face like Jiyong was _everything_ , everything in the world; including its worst horrors. This was it, thought Jiyong wildly, Seunghyun had had it: too angry, too devastated, and too drunk – Jiyong had finally driven him crazy.

“ _Please_ ,” the younger man whispered, but he didn’t know if Seunghyun could hear anything now. He didn’t even know what he was asking for. Dimly he heard metal slamming behind them. Seunghyun shook him, not hard enough to hurt – yet – but frantically, and pushed him back along the car, his face very close to Jiyong’s; unlike when he normally drank he had gone completely pale.

“I leave you alone a few days,” spat Seunghyun as Jiyong grasped his wrists, “and you’re at it _again_!!” He’d only trotted out that line a minute ago, had he forgotten already?

“For chrissakes, I was just saying _thank you_ …!” Jiyong repeated. He dug his nails in, but the bigger man was so high on moonshine and misery he didn’t even flinch. He wasn’t listening, either. Jiyong would be damned if they ended this over such a stupid misunderstanding as him chatting with a roustabout! He knew there were a dozen reasons for Seunghyun to leave him, but this…! “Tabi, get a fucking _grip_!” Seunghyun did, on the scruff of his neck and Jiyong hissed at him on instinct; the next moment he was sprawled on his back over a pile of canvas, Seunghyun also losing his footing as the car began to judder noisily: the Circus was rolling out. Jiyong knew then that there was no escaping whatever was about to happen, and that if he couldn’t calm him now Seunghyun might do something he would regret forever. Another metallic shudder and the bigger man was on top of him, body hot and trembling above his.

“Is this how you look to all of them?” Seunghyun demanded with a slight slur. “Fucking _beautiful_ , you’re not afraid of anything, are you, no wonder they weren’t warned off…!” Jiyong _was_ afraid but refused to show it: he needed to stay rational. He wriggled his arms out from beneath him and set them firmly on Seunghyun’s chest to push him away, how could either of them think when they were this close? As soon as he tried his hands were grabbed and pinned beside his head. Jiyong had an unpleasant flash of Gough and knew this should feel the same. It didn’t: this was an entirely different type of fear – the fear of _breaking_ Seunghyun.

“Tabi,” he murmured. His lover shook him. “I love you. You hear me?” Seunghyun was breathing harshly, his hands reawakening Jiyong’s bruises. “I’ve never said that to another man in my life. _I love you_.” Seunghyun’s eyes widened. There was a long, fraught pause and then Jiyong could start breathing himself because Seunghyun was actually _seeing_ him. “That’s right,” Jiyong told him.

“Oh, Christ!” Seunghyun looked sick as he came back to himself and took in the sight of the smaller man trapped beneath him, slender wrists caged in his hands. “I don’t wanna hurt you, Jiyong, I don’t want to be like them!”

“I know, Tabi, you won’t,” said Jiyong carefully, because this could still go either way and he _really_ didn’t want to be the target of one of Seunghyun’s blind rages; he knew they’d gotten close to it just now, and it’d alarmed him more than he’d thought.

“…You just make me so mad,” Seunghyun replied, and Jiyong couldn’t tell if it was an apology or a prelude to losing control again; those handsome features were dark and murky. He thought as fast as he could. Then he nodded.

“Punish me, then,” he said softly. Seunghyun’s eyes widened; _easy, easy_ , thought Jiyong – his poor Tabi was right on the edge of freaking out. Jiyong leaned up as best he could with his arms restrained and brushed the tip of his nose against Seunghyun’s cheek; he heard a shuddering intake of breath, and followed it with his lips. “Sure,” he breathed, and felt the smooth skin begin to burn, it’d been so long since they’d touched. “You don’t like the idea of sharing me? Then you better show me who’s boss.” Seunghyun made a deep sound of confusion, but there was something else there too, and when Jiyong slyly slid a thigh between his legs he found Seunghyun was half erect. The older man groaned, then knocked the limb back down and squeezed Jiyong’s wrists even tighter.

“Quit messing with me,” he growled. After a moment’s chasing Jiyong caught his gaze: his pupils were as blown wide and fuzzy as if he was high. So he _did_ like the idea, thought Jiyong, and found that he did himself – very much. Why, he wondered, when not so long ago he’d been terrified of the same kind of constraint from Gough? He only knew that it _was_ different. Just then Seunghyun straddled him properly, fully immobilizing him and pelvis pushing insistently against him. In spite of his nerves Jiyong was getting hard too, and he prayed this was going in the direction he’d suggested. _This_ was how he fixed his problems – please God, let it work now!

“You’re unbelievable,” Seunghyun told him; his tone still aggressive, still pissed, but now plainly excited as well. Jiyong gasped sharply as a thrilled little shiver ran from his head to the tips of his toes – it’d been so long since he’d felt this particular type of anticipation! He’d played submissive for many clients, of course, but it’d never been one of his especial leanings. And yet now… “ _This_ is what you meant by ‘variety’?!” went on Seunghyun in a hoarse voice, in response to the tremors beneath Jiyong’s skin. His gorgeous face showed equal measures of terror and awe. Jiyong simply leaned into his grip and gave him his best compliant expression, hoping he wouldn’t stall now. To his delight Seunghyun’s mouth curled into an uncertain smile. “‘Cos if so,” he murmured, voice dropping to its lowest rumble though still with a slight drunken slur, “…I think maybe I can accommodate you.”

“Tabi…” Jiyong arched up into him, relieved that Seunghyun had at last come around and so aroused by the sound of his voice it was all he could do not to grind against him like a teenager: they hadn’t been intimate for so long.

“Uh-uh! I don’t think that’s how this works,” scolded Seunghyun with a nervous chuckle. The bigger man drew away just enough that Jiyong’s cock was left there on its lonesome; Jiyong made a needy sound and pouted. The vibration of the car floor was adding to his shudders and now he felt _good_ , the relief flooding his body. “You’re meant to wait for my orders!” Seunghyun told him, blushing furiously but not letting go of his wrists.

“What are they?” whispered Jiyong in encouragement, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip and giving Seunghyun his most seductive smile. It might’ve worked _too_ well: Seunghyun just looked stunned.

“…I don’t know!”

“I’ll tell you what, Tabi,” murmured Jiyong, who figured it was gunna be hard to play the wilting flower with such a jittery beginner at the game of domination, “you just try and keep me down!” He let a glint of defiance enter his eye and clenched his fists in Seunghyun’s grasp; the older man grunted and instinctively held on tighter. Jiyong raised his head in a way that showed off his fine jaw, simultaneously presenting a challenge and baring his throat. “But I bet you can’t.”

“I bet I can!” shot back Seunghyun, his tentative grin returning. Jiyong pushed up with all his strength and got close enough for a kiss before Seunghyun got his act together and shoved him back down.

“Come on!” taunted Jiyong, and commenced wrestling.

In five minutes he’d managed to pin Seunghyun just once, but _had_ contrived to tussle the man’s shirt open and several of his own garments off. The press of Seunghyun’s lean muscles above him, chest heaving against his, was thrilling, partly because he hadn’t felt it for ages and all the more ‘cos it was so _different_. Seunghyun was always gentle and reverent with him, coaxing him into pleasure and tormenting him only with too much of it; this was boisterous and heated, their bodies struggling together for control. Jiyong wasn’t sure what his Tabi would do if he eventually got it, but there was a hint of thoughtfulness that’d been absent before in his perfect face so he had to be considering _something_. He sure seemed to be enjoying letting off steam.

Jiyong had just managed to get atop Seunghyun and sit on him when the bigger man grasped him by the hips and rolled them over ‘til Jiyong was underneath him. His breath was coming hard and fast, and sped up further at the sight of Jiyong’s flushed face and uneven panting. Before the younger man could make a counter-attack Seunghyun grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him over to the car wall, where cables and guy-ropes swung rhythmically with the train. Jiyong knew immediately what he was planning and felt that tingle again, his cock twitching in his underwear – his pants had gone by the wayside some time ago.

“Hold still!” commanded Seunghyun in exasperation as Jiyong wriggled. He caught a loop of rope around his tattooed forearm. “…You better bet I’m gonna punish you, Christ, you’re a nightmare!”

“Mmph!” Jiyong made a noise of effort, but Seunghyun had him on the ropes now – literally – and was wrapping coils around his wrists, attaching him to the wall.

“You really mean this?” asked Seunghyun solemnly. Jiyong nodded, eyes wide, and he yanked the rope hard; it tightened just shy of hurting, and no matter how the smaller man moved those double-jointed arms he was stuck fast. The last time this had happened to him it’d been McGurn, he recalled with a flash, but perhaps this would help obliterate those dark memories: he felt he was no longer in danger of harm from Seunghyun. “There,” said his lover. “You won’t be getting up to any mischief _now_.” And with that Jiyong let go all his muscles and gratefully submitted. Seunghyun knelt there above him and for a long time just watched him; so long that Jiyong began to feel his body aching wherever that heated gaze touched it. He wanted more but wasn’t dumb enough to think he’d be satisfied anytime soon. After an eternity of silent begging Seunghyun set just the tips of his fingers over Jiyong’s heart – the place where he’d tattooed that first perfect meeting with his beloved. Jiyong shifted toward him. “…Jiyong, you’ve made me so unhappy,” Seunghyun said gravely. “How many months now?” How long since he’d started the cooch act?

“…Four,” Jiyong hazarded. He felt the edges of short fingernails dig into his skin.

“And how many years have you made my life whole?” He was having a hard time counting – Seunghyun’s eyes were so intense.

“Almost three…since we first met.”

“All right.” Seunghyun flattened his palm against Jiyong’s chest and felt the beat of his heart; the smaller man’s nipple was erect with sensation and he arched up into the warm touch. “Then I’m gonna make you come three times…and punish you four.” Jiyong sucked in a gasp of air and his cock twitched again with anticipation. Seunghyun slid his palm down, undoing the remaining buttons on the shirt and easing off his underwear slowly; his fingers lingered on the tattoos covering Jiyong’s slim legs, tickling and exciting him. He ran his eyes the length of his body and Jiyong saw him stifle the usual sigh of admiration.

“Tell me what to do,” whispered Jiyong; he parted his thighs a little, inviting whatever Seunghyun chose to give him.

“Close your mouth, that’s all, it only gets you in trouble.” The older man set all ten fingers to his torso this time and began to stroke him along the intricate lines of ink, barely grazing the skin as he explored his contours. The curve of Jiyong’s waist was sensitive and the flesh there was quivering before the digits even reached it: just one brush from those fingers hooked a high, soft sound from behind his closed lips. As a matter of fact Jiyong’s waist was bruised, as were his ribs and the backs of his knees, from the safety harness and practicing tricks; he hoped his tattoos made them harder to see than the ones on his wrists, and watched Seunghyun intently for any sign that he’d noticed. He didn’t wanna tell him about the aerial training and give him yet one more danger to worry about, but he didn’t want Seunghyun imagining he’d gotten them from a man, so – “Quit thinking,” Seunghyun said fiercely. “I didn’t tell you to! Look right at me.”

“Yes, Tabi.” It was hard to turn off his worries just like that, even with the immense draw of the older man’s gaze – oh, those lashes were truly sinful, and when the eyes beneath them flashed with command… But any further observations on his lover’s beauty were halted when Seunghyun gave him an impatient look and turned his caress to Jiyong’s ribs into a deliberate tickle. “ _Noooo_ nono!” cried Jiyong, who in select parts of his body was very sensitive indeed. He began to writhe beneath Seunghyun and got nothing but a sadistic smile for his pains. The bigger man clasped his bare thighs with both arms, forced his legs back toward his chest and began attacking his feet. “ _Seunghyun_!!”

“Guess…I’ll start you off easy with the first punishment,” said Seunghyun, moving to the soles.

“ _Easy_?!” That was all he could get out before his rationality crash-landed and he was reduced to nothing but wriggling and whimpers. This wasn’t erotic, this was _real_ punishment, and Seunghyun was enjoying it! It went on and on until Jiyong was genuinely weeping and tongue-tied and couldn’t even beg him to stop. When Seunghyun eventually did the relief left him almost as mindless. “…Thank you, thank you,” he babbled, his wrists stinging from twisting them in desperation.

“Wow,” said Seunghyun, devoid of sympathy but apparently enjoying the look of his captive’s pink and gleaming skin: Jiyong couldn’t miss the erection tenting his pants. He stroked the side of Jiyong’s neck as his breathing eased, then as if unable to hold back he leaned down and kissed him, nipping sharply at his lip; but when Jiyong lifted his head Seunghyun drew back far enough to stop him getting more than the faintest brush of contact. His thumb traced the younger man’s lush bottom lip and Jiyong flicked out his tongue, hoping for something better.

“…I want you,” Jiyong breathed; he never said that to other men even if he thought it, and now with Seunghyun smoldering above him he didn’t see why he ever would.

“Ahh, you’re doing it again,” chided Seunghyun, watching his face. Quickly he slid down Jiyong’s body, knocking his legs apart and shouldering between his thighs. “You’re not in control here, I am, and I told you to _stop_.” Jiyong basked in the gratification he felt at the words, then flinched lightly as Seunghyun kissed his belly, a promise of teeth in the caress. Those firm hands were on his hips, fingers biting into the flesh, and a second later his cock was enveloped in Seunghyun’s mouth.

“Mmm!” He wanted to thrust upward but couldn’t, he was being held down too hard. Seunghyun gave a grunt of satisfaction and began to suck him, his mouth the perfect tool to make him lose his mind ‘cos it was Jiyong who’d taught him. The smaller man couldn’t even warn him when he was at the edge, he couldn’t remember any words, only groans of delight; but Seunghyun stopped anyway. “ _Please_!” begged Jiyong, recalling one.

“Not yet.” Seunghyun’s low voice was harsh with excitement. “Now you make yourself useful.” He undid his pants with hands Jiyong was flattered to see were shaking, and when he moved towards him Jiyong arched up to meet him eagerly; he parted his lips and with a feverish sound let Seunghyun’s erection slide between them. His lover’s hand was tangled in his hair, lifting his head. Jiyong wondered how he wanted it, finesse or enthusiasm or – “Breathe,” rasped Seunghyun. He obeyed, then moaned as the hard length filled his throat; Seunghyun was holding his head still, tenderly but firmly, and dictated the pace himself without any need for Jiyong’s vast expertise or clever techniques. Jiyong breathed deep through his nose and whimpered, his eyes welling up again. He’d gotten quite used to this type of sex over the years, there was a certain breed of customer who only liked it this way, but he wouldn’t wish it on a beginner – and Seunghyun had never even attempted to use his body so selfishly. Jiyong’s vision was turning hazy, but for whatever reason the fact that Seunghyun was doing it now was keeping him hard. He arched his neck to find the easiest angle to breathe and heard Seunghyun cry out, both hands buried in his damp hair and holding on desperately. When Jiyong looked up dizzily Seunghyun was smiling like a devil and staring at him like he was divine. One more thrust and he came.

“…You’re spectacular,” the bigger man managed, cradling his face in both hands. Jiyong heaved in breath after breath ‘til he was floating on the headiness of the oxygen and Seunghyun’s praise. Seunghyun kissed him once more, open-mouthed and untidy, and returned to lie across his thighs and take him in his mouth again. In normal circumstances he was a leisurely lover after he’d just come – that was the time he’d toy with Jiyong for hours. Now Jiyong found himself being blown deep and a little _too_ fast, the buildup in his stomach too frantic and the canvas beneath his bare body vibrating as the train sped on, he wanted to hold on to something and couldn’t so nothing for it but to lie there helpless and moaning aloud. His toes curled and he juddered into a climax.

“ _Aahh_ …” Seunghyun raised his head as he swallowed, as if he particularly liked the sound of these soft mewls. He met Jiyong’s eyes and looked thoughtful.

“One,” he said tenderly. “How’s it feel?”

“…Amazing, baby, I thought I was gunna _explode_ , only-”

“Still too articulate,” Seunghyun announced. “I don’t want you to have a thought in your lovely head but _me_.” And he pressed Jiyong’s body down again and licked a long, slow line up his cock. Jiyong gasped weakly as he guessed what Seunghyun was about to do.

“Tabi, no, I can’t yet…!” The older man cupped his balls and squeezed them, tight enough to make the hair on Jiyong’s arms stand up, and breathed deliciously along his over-sensitive shaft. Jiyong squirmed – too much, touches that oughta be pleasure riding the electric wire of pain. He whined between his teeth and Seunghyun hummed to himself.

“Think I’ll combine the second go-rounds together,” he informed Jiyong, kissing the head of his languid cock and tracing lines with his fingers across his inner thighs. He closed his mouth over it once more and Jiyong twisted beneath him to get away from that talented tongue. Seunghyun gave his balls another warning squeeze and that stopped him all right. “You want me to tie you down harder?” Jiyong shook his head frantically. “Then stop fighting,” said Seunghyun, affectionate now. “Quit trying to dictate what happens to you – give _me_ control, all of it. I think you’ll feel better.” He waited, and smiled when Jiyong couldn’t reply but lay there blinking at him in the sudden tranquility that order had conjured. Then he began all over again – and this time he finished.

By the time he’d come twice Jiyong was exhausted and in a state that he couldn’t interpret as either bliss or pain but was an overwhelming mixture of both. He’d cried more than once at the things Seunghyun did, but after he’d gotten hard it hadn’t gone down. Seunghyun looked quite amazed at himself and still full of energy, though Jiyong couldn’t imagine what else could happen – he was too wiped out to imagine anything, and too in the spell of his lover’s care to mind.

“Up you get, darling.” Seunghyun rolled him over with competent hands, the calluses on his fingers like sandpaper against Jiyong’s prickling skin. The smaller man made a dumb questioning noise as Seunghyun embraced him from behind and lifted him bodily to his knees, then to his feet; the rope fastening him to the wall was too short for him to stand straight, the best he could do was a ninety-degree angle, clinging to the hanging cables so he didn’t fall right into the wall and knock himself unconscious. When Seunghyun loosened his grip Jiyong’s knees buckled almost immediately. “No, stay like that,” murmured the older man, holding him again, strong arms around his chest.

“… _Can’t_ ,” panted Jiyong. Did Seunghyun wanna fuck him now? He wanted that too, he didn’t care if he couldn’t personally get hard again, but like this? Impossible – he felt wobbly as a newborn calf.

“Yeah, you can. Five minutes – or I’ll blow you again.” Seunghyun wanted him to…what, just stand here? Also impossible: when the bigger man let go he’d be lost.

“Tabi, no…”

“Punishment three,” said Seunghyun in his ear, sounding happy. “Don’t think about it – just do it for me.” And he removed his support.

Jiyong’s legs began trembling directly, from his hips to his toes. His head dropped and between his thighs he could see an upside-down version of Seunghyun taking a seat on a pile of canvas and stripping off his boots and remaining clothes. Seunghyun leaned back and watched him intently, displaying his own erection and wonderful body in a way he normally didn’t care to do. One glimpse of that and Jiyong crumpled to the juddering floor.

“Back you go,” said Seunghyun patiently, and hauled him to his feet again. Jiyong could hear him stifle a laugh; one hand ran affectionately over the curve of his ass. Seunghyun sat down. The smaller man lasted perhaps another minute before his worry about what punishment number four would be distracted him and he fell again, adding more bruises to his collection. Seunghyun made a ‘tch’ sound; this time he didn’t help. Jiyong knew what was expected, and yes, it was the only thing he had to worry about now – his bigger daily complications had slipped away when Seunghyun had taken control. With great effort he pulled himself up by the ropes, he was sweating now against the cold metal of the train wall, swinging cables knocking his wrists encouragingly. He regained his feet and Seunghyun made a deep, approving sound; to his amazement Jiyong felt a flood of wellbeing in spite of the pain. His legs hurt so bad now after the jolts to his knees and he spread them to try and stay stable. How long had it been? Three minutes? No, _had_ to be four…

“Oh…!” When he collapsed the third time it stung him badly. He felt Seunghyun move up behind him and kiss the back of his neck with a great deal of love. The bigger man helped settle him on his knees – even that was an effort now – and rested one hand on his ass. The tension in that hand told Jiyong this wasn’t over, and he bit his lip as he worked to accept whatever was coming next.

“Two minutes. You tried,” Seunghyun told him, with a comforting tap on his butt. “Does it hurt?”

“ _Yes_ …”

“Then let’s move on: number four.” Another tap, brisker this time, and when the third landed it was a slap. Jiyong shivered helplessly: a spanking was no big deal, when he was younger Mr. Insull had loved to do it, but he was near the end of his strength now and he didn’t know how he’d react. Vaguely it occurred to him that if he seriously asked Seunghyun to stop he would; he felt more secure at once, but no less sensitive. Seunghyun was stroking his spine now, pushing the shirt out of the way, admiring the arch of his back and telling him how beautiful he was like this – as always he sounded awed. Still, it didn’t stop him dealing the smaller man another blow, and another, open-handed and stinging on his ass and thighs. Jiyong let out a few pained squeaks, clinging to his restraints, but simply didn’t have it in him to try and dodge them. “Christ, you sound amazing,” Seunghyun exclaimed; he’d never heard these noises before, not when he was always so gentle.

“Aahh…!” Jiyong let himself cry out louder, now that he knew it would please him – it felt so good not to hold back. Seunghyun must’ve felt the same because he moved toward the wall and selected a coil of rope, his expression very serious and terribly aroused.

“How’s it feel?” he asked in a husky voice. Jiyong couldn’t reply, just waited. Seunghyun petted his hair like that pleased him and ran his fingers along the younger man’s jaw indulgently. “…I’m gonna hit you with this now,” he murmured, and showed Jiyong the rope. “And that’ll be the end. Okay?” Jiyong had reached a place where he barely even wanted to be asked, drifting in the safety net of his lover’s authority: Seunghyun wouldn’t harm him. But he had been asked so he nodded, once. “Oh, you’re perfect.” The man still sounded tipsy, his voice thick with desire instead of booze.

Jiyong tried a smile ‘til it turned into a grimace as Seunghyun doubled up one end of the rope and laid it sharply across his buttocks. It was a completely different feeling from a hand, quicker and more concentrated: he could feel the resilient flesh give beneath his smooth skin, the impact a dull ‘thunk!’ instead of a slap as he rocked forward. He grit his teeth, every aching muscle tensed for the next blow, and when it came it hurt more. It wasn’t ‘til the fifth that Jiyong realized he was making it worse; he went limp, barely doing enough to keep himself on his knees with his ass raised. When the pain stopped escalating he knew he’d done the right thing, and leaned into it instead. Seunghyun’s approving rumble told Jiyong he liked that.

“That’s right…don’t worry about it, just accept it, darling,” he said softly, and Jiyong did. He dropped his head between his arms and rocked with each strike; Seunghyun was reducing the impact every time now, gradually drawing him down from the peak of the pain. Jiyong heard himself whimpering quietly, felt the tears slide down his nose, and then Seunghyun stopped and laid both hands reverently on his buttocks: oh, it hurt like his palms were red hot, but the touch was wonderful and caressing. Somehow Jiyong wasn’t even shocked as his cock rose sluggishly back to life. “End of punishment,” Seunghyun assured him, wiping Jiyong’s face dry with his thumbs and kissing him. “And now for your third finish…” Jiyong didn’t think he could stand any more sensation, but Seunghyun would guide him through it – all he had to do was follow that magic voice and the touch of his hands.

In the end nothing was required of Jiyong at all. Seunghyun moved him with careful touches, spreading his thighs and kissing the glowing skin of his abused rear. Jiyong hissed absently and made soft complaining noises that turned into a loud whine when the bigger man’s fingers parted his buttocks – it stung, it burned like he’d only just been tattooed, and Seunghyun was indulging his love of squeezing them even more than usual.

“I wanna fuck you,” Seunghyun said feverishly. “But there’s nothing in here to make it easy, so can you be a good boy and be patient?”

“Mmn…”

“Brilliant.” Seunghyun rubbed his high cheekbone against the base of Jiyong’s spine, then proceeded to eat him out ‘til Jiyong was soft and wet and trembling all over. He couldn’t find the words to beg, but his moans as Seunghyun worked him open were surely enough to convey his anticipation. He felt the bigger man’s rigid cock nudge against his hole: he knew this wouldn’t be the silky smooth ride they normally enjoyed, but he wanted it inside him before he went crazy, _now_. Seunghyun spat into his hand and wet his erection some more. Jiyong groaned, Seunghyun groaned, and it _worked_. He hadn’t had it this way in years and it had never undone him so sweetly before: Seunghyun was supporting his weight entirely, chest against Jiyong’s back and breath hoarse in his ear as he moved for both of them.

“Whoa!” It wasn’t perfect – the train hit a small snag in the track, knocking them both flat on the floor – oh, but it _was_. Once they were down they lay there and let the rocking of the train do the work for them, Seunghyun buried almost completely inside him as they moved together like snakes. Jiyong pressed his face into the canvas, arms caught above his head, his high voice rising and falling; he’d trained Seunghyun so well that all the man had to do was angle for his weak spots and push. The train barreled on and Seunghyun hit that place over and over ‘til Jiyong was delirious, the discomfort and pleasure hammering at him while Seunghyun’s words of praise touched him like velvet.

It wasn’t a spectacular climax, he was too wrung out: he just tightened around Seunghyun with a sigh, then sank into the sensation of being moved while the older man had his own moment. When he pulled out Jiyong felt sore and empty and as if he’d been ravished from head to toe: if he could fly again this week it’d be a miracle, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Seunghyun holding him safe.

“I love you,” Seunghyun was muttering to him, over and over as he pressed kisses everywhere he could reach. “…Where did that come from, how did I _do_ that? Jiyong…” He sounded thoroughly mystified. He came back to himself and untied Jiyong’s arms, and now there were new marks there. Unlike Gough’s Jiyong had no desire to hide them, even when Seunghyun exclaimed in dismay and started searching for something to soothe the friction burns on his wrists and knees. Of course he couldn’t find anything; Jiyong simply lay there and watched him, boneless and utterly relaxed. Eventually Seunghyun gave up and dragged a bolt of worn, soft canvas over to create a makeshift blanket for his prostrate lover. Then, for the first time in what felt like forever, Jiyong had the pleasure of sharing his bed – without a single argument.

“Just explain one thing,” murmured Seunghyun, now kissing a lazy path along Jiyong’s shoulder, which hurt from the angle he’d been lying at as they made love. “How the hell did that Timtam know _this_ is what you wanted? ‘Cos it knocked the stuffing out of _me_.”

“Oh! Is that what he was telling you?!” Jiyong huffed out an amused breath and slid his hand through Seunghyun’s hair. “He was just trying to shock you. But I guess it turned out to be good advice…” Timtam had known he wouldn’t quit the cooch show; presumably he thought Seunghyun deserved some sweet revenge.

“Hmph. And I told him to fuck off!”

“He thinks I oughta be kept down,” said Jiyong. “They all do.” It still made him irritated, the way his pals took Seunghyun’s side – but if this was what they’d meant maybe they were onto something. “They think you need to take me in hand.” He gasped as the bigger man’s fingers trailed meaningfully along his soft, satisfied cock.

“That’s pretty rude of them.”

“You being ‘the man’ and all; they have their own ideas about propriety.” Seunghyun snorted, obviously not entirely comfortable with the idea that half the floor-level acts had opinions on his relationship.

“I don’t wanna dictate your life, Jiyong,” he said quietly. “We’re equals; and you don’t need my permission to do _anything_.” Jiyong was pleased to hear it.

“I know, baby.” He rolled over and leaned his forearms on Seunghyun’s chest. “But what we just did?” He smiled and wiped at a leftover cathartic tear. “Turns out that’s exactly what I needed.”

“Mmm. I dunno why,” muttered Seunghyun, drawing Jiyong’s head down to rest against his shoulder. “But if this is what you’ve been looking for…I guess I could get to like it too.” He sighed and went quiet. Jiyong ventured a couple of comments, but when he didn’t get a response figured Tabi had gone someplace to mull all this over.

Not ready to sleep yet Jiyong attempted to do the same; but he was distracted by the warmth of Seunghyun, the strong arms around his back, hands proprietary on his tattoos. Seunghyun absently tightened his hold, and with a blink of clarity Jiyong suddenly understood why he’d craved something like this so much, this exact dynamic that he’d been unconsciously looking for in the company of other men. They’d seemed to offer it, the ones who’d caught his eye: strong bodies, assertive natures and an apparent eagerness to direct him – but when Gough had actually tried it it’d scared Jiyong witless, and it was Seunghyun who’d fulfilled it in the end. It was strange that a physical touch could prompt such a revelation, but there it was, unfolding in his head.

 At last he could answer Seunghyun’s question: _why_? It was because his life as it was now – this life of freedom with no overbearing hand keeping him down – was exhausting. He loved it, he really did: being part of such a magical spectacle and getting to live it with Seunghyun, building a life for the both of them. He’d worked hard to grow up since he’d left Chicago, to take control of his own future. But it was so very pleasant to let go of the reins! To abdicate responsibility for his actions and put himself under someone else’s control, even for a night, had soothed him better than the smoothest moonshine Seunghyun could concoct. Looking back to the time all this began he saw that although the four walls of the House had been a cage, they’d also held him upright: no need to do anything for himself, no need to even think for himself beyond how to please his tricks. It was the _thinking_ that’d always got him in trouble. These days _everything_ lay on his shoulders: his success, their finances and future, his family, Seunghyun’s wellbeing and his own…it was just too much sometimes, too complicated and adult. But tonight Seunghyun had taken all that and forcibly emptied his head of it, of every worry, and it’d been such a relief to let go.

Jiyong wasn’t naïve, he knew it was temporary, as clearly as he knew the same tangles of sex and morality might rear their heads again to come between them; still, thanks to his Tabi he could rest easy for a while – his itch had been well and truly scratched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 15The ‘frog boy’ or ‘frog girl’ was another of those blithely insensitive names for a sideshow act: it might refer to any number of medical conditions, most often deformed or absent legs. Usually they were male but there were a number of women, one of whom recently played ‘Legless Suzy’ in _American Horror Story: Freak Show_ and otherwise lived a perfectly normal life as an actress with husband, kids, etc. until her death in 2015. I wanted the character for this fic to be similar to her: happy and not ‘disabled’.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 16Stole this joke from _Blackadder_ , greatest history sitcom ever: Rowan Atkinson, Hugh Laurie, Stephen Fry, etc. I swear, my sense of humour comes about 70% from this show :)[return to text]  
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> 
> This chapter's title song is _'Keepin' Out Of Mischief Now'_ , performed by Dick Hyeman in 1929.
> 
> Thanks for following the boys on their first real relationship challenge! Now they can enjoy a bit of peace...for a while ;)


	8. Do What You Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong works on his career amid the tentative peace of reconciliation.

Jiyong was loitering around near the front of the train and trying to stay outta the way of the various riggers, canvasmen, and other technical people already loading their cars for the next jump. A couple of them greeted him while a few shot him dirty looks: sideshow performers were supposed to keep to their own section. But Jiyong was anxious to find Seunghyun before the train pulled out. He didn’t quite dare go up to the riggers’ car and summon him ‘cos it was hard enough to keep a low profile as it was, and besides, judging by the loud row coming from inside the car he figured there was enough strife going on already. But he longed to see his lover, and since they’d made their peace in the canvas car he knew Seunghyun was eager to spend time with him again, too.

He flattened his back against the cold side of the train as a tardy hostler with a draught horse hurried by for loading. When he straightened up Seunghyun was there.

“Hey,” said Jiyong happily, and saw his gorgeous face light up.

“I’m not going back in there for a while!” exclaimed Seunghyun, scurrying away from his train car with a roll of blankets under his arm that meant he wanted to spend the night. “C’mon.” Jiyong took his sleeve and smiled.

“Sure, baby; we’ll find someplace to sneak in before the jump.” He gave the bigger man a wink: the bruises from the previous week were fading and he wouldn’t mind being taken out of his head again – he’d had a letter from Soomin about their father and he wanted to forget it. “Why, what’s going on?”

“You know that primadonna flyer Millie.”

“Sure, Center Ring: ‘Princess of the Trapeze’, right?”

“Yeah, well, she just found out her rigger was at a Ouija party[17] in town the other night and now she’s going ballistic in our car.”

“He went to a _what_?!” Seunghyun stared at his expression and started laughing.

“Jeez, you performers are all the same! So superstitious,” he said fondly. “Your ghosts and your fortune-telling, you wouldn’t think this is the twentieth century!”

“Shut up, Tabi, that stuff’s no joke!” Jiyong told him seriously. Seunghyun just grinned and led him across the tracks to the quiet side of the train, then slid an arm around his shoulders. The younger man leaned against him fondly, grateful that they were both making the effort to fix the unease still lingering between them over the cooch act.

“Joke or not,” said Seunghyun, an amused rumble in his ear, “poor Ezra sure isn’t laughing now! That woman’s got a tongue like a saber.”

“Hmm.”

“He won’t do it again, not now he knows how easily spooked you all are.” Seunghyun kissed the top of his head. “Wanna go bed down?”

“I just oughta do my exercises.” He still worked at them religiously and he hadn’t had time that morning.

“Need me to come spot you?” Jiyong knew Seunghyun was puzzled as to why he kept up his routine after the whole mess with Gough, though he wasn’t above appreciating the sleek results.

“Nah, I’ll be quicker on my own.” Jiyong stretched up and kissed him. “Meet me in the canvas car in twenty minutes?” Seunghyun nodded and strolled off, hands in his pockets. Jiyong watched his tall form go with appreciation. He’d told Seunghyun he wouldn’t keep any more secrets, but there was still one exception: he didn’t want his lover to know yet that he was training as hard as he could to become a flyer himself.

 

* * *

 

He knew it wouldn’t stay under wraps forever, ‘cos obviously Seunghyun wasn’t an idiot: Jiyong hadn’t shown the slightest interest in exercise in the past, excepting of course the horizontal kind. It’d been easy to hide it while they were fighting, thanks to the otherwise infuriating caste system enforced by everyone from Terrell downward; still, how could Seunghyun fail to notice now that his lover was nowhere to be found in the hour or two after setup was complete every day? They could’ve taken that time to sneak away somewhere, and Seunghyun was bound to start mentioning it. Jiyong had already run out of excuses as to why he couldn’t meet him.

One morning the younger man ran straight into him as he was jogging back from the Big Top after practice. It was raining – even the collective prayers of every Cirkie couldn’t prevent the weather having its own way _sometimes_ – but not enough to stop Seunghyun noticing he was sweating.

“Your workout?” Seunghyun was pushing a wheelbarrow carefully covered by a tarp: if his fireworks got wet the show was screwed. He must be setting up early for the matinée – Jiyong had cut it fine this time.

“Yeah!” he said innocently. Seunghyun seemed quite taken with his wet look. It didn’t stop him worrying, though.

“Don’t catch a cold!” he chided Jiyong, and beckoned him back into the Big Top before he could get any damper. Jiyong tried to look suitably humbled, ‘cos without the company of a high-level kinker he wasn’t meant to be here at all before the Spec. Then Seunghyun saw Gough in the far corner; his whole body went rigid. “Sorry, I didn’t know _he’d_ be in here.”

“It’s fine, Tabi, he’s not bothered me since.” Seunghyun gave him a curious glance.

“Tell me, why were you having that scumbag train you in the first place? Apart from…” He trailed off. Jiyong looked at him sideways: he knew Seunghyun was far from over his resentment of Gough and Jiyong’s former admiration of the man, but he felt their relationship was regaining some of its strength. He decided that, seeing as they were standing right here by Center Ring, in his new spirit of honesty it was time to trust his lover and tell the truth at last.

“I wanted to get strong enough for the Big Top,” he stated. Seunghyun’s handsome eyebrows drew down.

“So you _do_ still want to leave the sideshow. Fine by me. But I thought you were working on a contortion act?”

“I was. I still could.”

“Then strong enough for what?” The older man nudged him. “C’mon, Jiyong, I hate it when you don’t talk to me.”

“…Strong enough to be an aerialist,” confessed Jiyong. Seunghyun tipped his head back and groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose; he seemed to have forgotten about Gough.

“Jesus. I should’ve guessed – you can’t aim low, can you!” Jiyong turned to him, grasped his arm: he’d known Seunghyun would react like this, but he had to get him on board!

“I know, Tabi,” he began eagerly, “but you should just _see_ it!”

“I see it every night.” Jiyong squeezed his wrist in a transport of enthusiasm.

“I mean really _see it_ , picture yourself up there…”

“Ugh.”

“The risk, the rush, the _freedom_ ,” continued Jiyong. “Can you imagine it?!”

“I can imagine you breaking your neck,” said Seunghyun hotly. “At least with a contortion act you’d be down on the stage. Even that disgusting strip show’s less dangerous!”

“I can do it, I know I can! Yuyan from the Chinese troupe’s been teaching me, I go up almost every morning as soon as the gear’s rigged and she says I’m getting _good_.”

“You do what?!” exclaimed Seunghyun, looking horrified. He turned his gaze to Center Ring, where the group of aerialists was rehearsing some new moves for a routine. The idea of Jiyong doing anything remotely similar seemed to appall him.

“I use a net or wear the mechanic, the safety harness,” Jiyong reassured him, pressing his arm to get his attention back. “But I won’t need it for long, I feel so _natural_ when I’m up there, Tabi, you oughta see me!” He could feel his face glowing with the memory of it – he’d tried most of the equipment and was best on the corde lisse rope, though he could at least do simple moves on Yuyan’s trapeze and hoop – and the sensation of space and movement, the flood of adrenaline was addictive. “…I’m good at it,” he repeated simply. Seunghyun was staring at him, large eyes fixed on the brightness in his face. His hand groped for Jiyong’s, found it, and squeezed.

“God,” said Seunghyun hoarsely, with that expression of stunned wonder Jiyong was grateful to get nowadays, “I love seeing you like this!” Jiyong guessed he mostly loved seeing him giddy over something that wasn’t another man, but felt himself melt a bit in any case. He glanced around to check no-one was looking, then leaned up and gave him a lightning-fast kiss.

“So you don’t mind?!”

“Oh, I mind,” said Seunghyun, coming down to earth and glaring at him. “You’ll kill yourself, and then that’s my life over too! You want excitement, go ride the elephants! Why risk everything for a thrill?” He was extremely serious. Jiyong’s spirits fell a little: he wouldn’t put it past Seunghyun to use his key position in the show to get him blocked from the aerial rigging altogether – if he complained about a sideshow oddity bothering the legitimate kinkers he could have Jiyong thrown out. The bigger man did not like heights at _all_ , and he was obviously still angry about the…the other thing.

“…I hear what you say,” Jiyong told him meekly, and took hold of his sleeve. That seemed to satisfy Seunghyun, although he looked surprised how easy it’d been. Jiyong leaned a touch closer and smiled to himself – by the time Seunghyun noticed he hadn’t stopped it would be too late. _No-one_ was gunna stop him now.

 

* * *

 

Later, Jiyong was forced to reflect that being honest with Seunghyun hadn’t lasted very long. On the other hand this was totally different from the cooch show: this was part of his _dream_ , and if his Tabi was too squeamish to get on board with it he’d just have to stay in the dark ‘til Jiyong could present him with a successful act. Of course, it was now very difficult to avoid Seunghyun getting suspicious; to pull it off Jiyong was having to juggle his various duties even more spectacularly – matter of fact it’d probably be easier just to _become_ a juggler. This made him anxious and breathless, and very likely he’d have begun reaching for those dominant figures of men again if not for Seunghyun’s growing skill at _making_ him abandon his worries. Jiyong was delighted by his lover’s willingness to take the reins in the bedroom – well, car – and bully every thought out of his head. He thought Seunghyun was enjoying it too.

And the trouble was all worth it ‘cos Jiyong was _improving_ : he’d never been afraid on the aerial gear and now the rope was starting to feel like part of his body; his already unusual flexibility was increasing and he’d begun to use his imagination to tie the different stunts into a story, like pearls on a string. He could pull off some tricks with another flyer now, though honestly he preferred to work alone. Yuyan had even smuggled him in during shows a couple of times and let him hold the trapezes for her on the high platform from which she took off. Even though he received no attention from the audience he got a second-hand thrill at hearing their exclamations and applause from the peak of the Big Top roof. Jiyong couldn’t say all this was _more_ fun than sex, but the feeling was far less complicated.

“Your ropes are very good now,” said Yuyan in her stark way, after he’d shown her the latest routine he’d come up with and apparently pulled it off so well the rest of her troupe had stopped to watch.

“Thanks to you!” acknowledged Jiyong, preening as he regained the sawdust; he’d done it without the mechanic and hadn’t felt frightened at all.

“So. What will you do to make it yours?”

“Sorry?”

“You want a real act, yes?” said the small woman. “To be _paid_?” Jiyong nodded, why else would he do this if not to be a real kinker? “Not only to hold our trapezes every other night.”

“Well…yeah.”

“Then you must have something different from us.” She walked off towards the back door tunnel and Jiyong followed her after ramming his feet into his shoes. When he caught up he looked at her questioningly; the sharp bones of her face seemed to soften slightly. “You cannot join our group,” she told him without preamble.

“…Ah.” Jiyong had suspected something like this from the beginning, but after she’d spent so long training him he’d hoped…

“You are very useful,” she assured him, pushing back the curtain to the women’s dressing room. Jiyong followed her in: him being a ‘fairy,’ no-one would care. “But we are a _Chinese_ troupe.”

“Right.”

“How long will we stay in America?” She shrugged, took a seat and put her feet up. “The laws are very severe to Asians. When we go, we go as family. You would not fit in.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” said Jiyong, crestfallen.

“And anyway,” Yuyan went on with a rare look of amusement, “you are a _show-off_ : you need a solo act.” That made Jiyong laugh, as maybe she’d intended. “So think of something. Then come to me and I tell you if it is stupid.”

“Thanks a lot!” said Jiyong, and went off to do just that.

 

* * *

 

He thought about it for a week: during his sideshow set and the Big Top and the cooch act, in bed before sleep with Seunghyun, and even in his dreams. He watched Yuyan’s troupe and the other aerialists and knew he wasn’t better than any of them, not enough to earn him a solo position – he did nothing especially outrageous or death-defying, which was what the public had come to expect from the best aerial acts these days. So what would get management to take a chance on him and raise him from the sideshow? What would wow a crowd? In the end he fell back on the qualities by which he’d sold himself half his life: beauty and novelty. That was what he needed to think of: something _new_.

“Say again?” prompted Yuyan, a few days after this revelation. “You are confusing.”

“I was watching…um, an act recently,” Jiyong said, not wanting to mention it’d been one of his cooch show colleagues. “Dancing, using veils. And I thought: why not that, in the air?” Yuyan raised her eyebrows; he wasn’t explaining himself very well. Jiyong wanted to say that the flow of the fabric, its elegant billows and folds of color, had made that woman’s strip show look like _art_ , and it’d given him a great flash of inspiration. He just didn’t know if it was physically possible to pull off. “Like the corde lisse,” he tried, pointing to the hanging rope. “But a long piece of fabric. I could do the same kinda stuff with it: climbs and footlocks and drops and things. Only the fabric itself becomes part of the show, and ‘cos it can be twisted narrow or spread wide it’d be so versatile and _pretty_.”

“…Show me,” said Yuyan, looking skeptical. Jiyong trotted off to find a piece of paper, then attempted to sketch what he meant: a length of fabric that attached like any other aerial rope to the Top, that could be raised and lowered in the same way. The Chinese woman made a considering sound that Jiyong hoped contained a tiny bit of interest. “It would have to be…what is the word, flexible. If you want to use like a rope.” He nodded. “But also very strong.”

“Yeah. But is it possible?” Yuyan looked at him, and smiled like an inventor.

“You will have to find out!”[18]

 

* * *

 

That was easier said than done, but Jiyong hopped right on it in between his other duties. Yuyan had called over a couple of her colleagues and they’d looked at him like he’d gone mad. Still, they entered into an enthusiastic-sounding discussion in Chinese, pointing at the sketch and at Jiyong and counting rapidly on their fingers. Yuyan translated the gist of it, and after some input they all agreed that it had to be soft but not slippery, would be easier to climb if it wasn’t stretchy, and would need to be at least eighty inches wide to support his weight. Yuyan’s rigger wandered up and with a technical eye suggested that from this point of view maybe it would be better to loop a double length of fabric over a fitting at the top, and have two pieces hanging down so one end wasn’t bearing the strain all by itself. Jiyong nodded excitedly – it’d give him even more scope for tricks than the single rope he trained on.

The next problem was where to get the fabric. Jiyong hustled off and used the troupe’s name to try and request some. When he eventually got to the Wardrobe mistress she laughed at him: no, of course they didn’t carry around eighty-foot lengths of cloth mid-season! The only person who might was the Boss Canvasman. Jiyong went and asked – rather more tentatively this time ‘cos the man was always doing something vital and had a tendency to shout – and was again stared at like he was soft in the head.

“Those crazy Chinese,” the Boss said in disgust, but marched Jiyong over to the car and dug out a huge bolt of canvas. “Never used it,” he informed Jiyong. “The moron who ordered it didn’t think what’d happen if a wind gets up.” The smaller man crouched and took the fabric between his fingers: it was softer than normal tent canvas, but when he scrunched it in his hand he figured it wouldn’t flow the way he needed it to. He relayed this to the canvasman, who told him get out and quit wasting his time. The only option left was to find an actual shop.

Jiyong had no idea how much cloth cost. He knew how much _clothes_ cost, of course, from his couture shopping trips back at the House to his more low-grade purchases of late. But you were mostly paying for the tailor – surely fabric itself couldn’t be expensive. Even so, he kept that week’s pay in cash and just shook his head when Seunghyun asked if he wanted to hit up the jeweler in the next big town. Seunghyun seemed on the verge of asking him about it but diplomatically kept his questions to himself.

Thankfully the shopping trip was a success. Jiyong rushed into town after the Saturday matinée and asked the first kind-looking little old lady he saw where he could find such a store. He was buttoned up to the neck to hide his tattoos, so after one startled glance she told him. Jiyong gave the store owner a pretty smile when he arrived and begged him not to close yet – he was just putting up his shutters. The man didn’t seem too jazzed to have him as a customer, but luckily his wife was an avid circus-goer and swept her husband aside to help when Jiyong told her it was for a new act.

“Why not silk? A silk blend, at least, but not slippery,” she asked, once he’d given her the specifications and they’d looked at a few things; it was so hard to choose when he barely knew what it was he needed.

“Isn’t that the most expensive?” Jiyong replied; he thought worriedly of his savings and the money he _had_ to send home: Soomin’s tuition fees were due. She nodded, then smiled. “But we have a spoiled roll in the warehouse out back! Right, Archie?” The husband nodded and brightened up a bit at the prospect of offloading some damaged stock, and gave her the key. She led Jiyong through the shop into a huge room piled with a rainbow of fabric cocoons. “There was a flood a year or two back and it got stained,” she explained, patting it. “But it won’t show at a distance, not even from the Grandstand.” Jiyong checked the width, tugged on a length of it and closed it in his hand; maybe it would do the trick. It was a vivid emerald green and really quite pretty.

“…How much?” he inquired. She looked like she was weighing him up.

“Twenty-five.” Half a week’s pay for something that might not even work. Jiyong straightened up and prepared to haggle.

He left the shop ten minutes later with his purchase. The only problem was that he could barely lift it; he’d have to take a cab. As it turned out they were few and far between in a town this size, and neither of those he saw would stop for him. He stood there worrying and growing angry – you really did forget about the race prejudice ‘til you left the Circus. Eventually the shopkeeper’s wife came out and hailed one for him, looking vaguely embarrassed though he wasn’t sure why. Jiyong hugged his enormous roll and told himself to enjoy these few minutes of luxurious living as the taxi took him back to the train.

He had to get a roustabout to help him carry it when he arrived, and then Seunghyun of all people mooched past and saw.

“What the hell is that?” said the older man dubiously.

“It’s for Yuyan!” Jiyong told him, panting.

“Oh.” Seunghyun walked on, fireworks piled in his arms, and Jiyong breathed a sigh of relief. _Then_ he had to sweet-talk the Boss Canvasman into finding him a place to stow the damn thing. The guy wasn’t Jiyong’s biggest fan at the moment, but the promise of one of Seunghyun’s bottles did the trick and the silk was flung into the acrobats’ baggage car. Jiyong made a mental note to commandeer a wheelbarrow when it came time to try it out; he’d get Yuyan and her rigger to come look at it and they’d figure out how to set it up. Maybe even tomorrow morning! He went to change for the sideshow feeling nervous and fizzing with excitement – after all these months, his own act!

But Jiyong wouldn’t get to try out his new art form tomorrow, or any time that week, because that night the Sells-Floto Circus experienced its greatest tragedy in a decade.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong heard the faint sound of screams all the way from the cooch tent, where he was hurriedly getting changed for his striptease. Everyone in the room froze, wondering what the hell it could be and listening for the band’s Disaster March, which was the signal to evacuate the audience. Jiyong had never heard it before and he didn’t hear it now; so what was going on? He’d only left the Big Top five minutes ago, at the end of Yuyan’s act, and everything had been going swimmingly. Jeremiah gave them a ‘stay put’ signal and rushed outta the dressing room.

“What d’you think?!” said the tall blonde next to him; she’d gone pale.

“You don’t suppose it’s the cats again?” wondered the Queen of the Nile, so called ‘cos she was _from_ Queens and not, in fact, Egypt. Everyone shrugged. The only time Jiyong had heard screams like this was when Laurel, the top lion tamer, had got sick during the evening show last year – she was pregnant but they didn’t find _that_ out ‘til later – and one of the lionesses had taken advantage of her distraction to duck outta the big cat arena and go investigate the audience. Jiyong didn’t blame the animal at all, and Laurel had got herself together and brought her back before she did any harm, but it’d been an extremely hairy few minutes.

“They’re offstage by this time,” Jiyong said, biting his lip. The screams had stopped and the brass band was playing one of its ordinary upbeat numbers so the show must be continuing. He looked around at his coworkers. “What should we do?”

“Well.” Yvette, who actually was from Paris, stubbed out her cigarette and pinched her cheeks to pinken them. “If there are still any rubes out front I say we go on: I don’t want to miss my tips!” One of the enforcers nodded and went to tell the customers. Jiyong finished getting changed, but he was nervous, and looking round at the girls he knew this wouldn’t be anyone’s best performance.

As soon as Jiyong was done with his act he yanked his clothes on and raced for the back yard. There were hundreds of people there, kinkers and sideshows and techs all muddled up together, and that was how he knew something was really wrong. Balancing on tiptoe he scanned the darkness for anyone he knew. There was an ambulance parked out beyond the tents – who’d been hurt?! He began to hunt more urgently, for his friends but mainly for Seunghyun; it was hard, so many workers crowded into the space, and after a minute Jiyong found himself frantic. Perhaps that was why it took him so long to notice that every man there had his hat off, and when he did he realized someone must have died. With a tiny bit of relief he at last saw the lanky figure of Sky High towering over everyone else at the edge of the crowd, and pushed his way through.

“Down here!” called Jiyong unsteadily, and the giant bent his head. “Have you seen Seunghyun? You know?” Sky High nodded, squinted around for a few moments, then pointed.

“He’s over there.” Jiyong’s heart rose; he darted away from his kindly bunkmate in the direction of Sky High’s finger, and there by a tent was Seunghyun, his classical profile silhouetted against the dim white of the canvas. Jiyong skidded up, and found Timtam with him.

“Jiyong!” Heedless of the crowd Seunghyun grabbed him and pulled him into a fervent hug; his tall body bent over the shorter man as if he wanted to make himself small, small enough to fit in Jiyong’s arms like a kid.

“Tabi,” murmured Jiyong, stroking his hair; Seunghyun’s lovely body was trembling and his breath was on the verge of tears. He didn’t reply. Jiyong glanced down at Timtam, who for once didn’t seem to have a smart remark but was standing with his cap off looking sober. “What’s happened?!” demanded Jiyong, seeing as Seunghyun wasn’t about to answer. “We heard the screaming but not the Disaster March, so…”

“Millie fell,” said Timtam simply. Seunghyun tightened his hold on Jiyong, who went cold all over.

“The trapeze artist?!”

“Yup. The headliner. From the Top to the sawdust.”

“…Jesus,” Jiyong said, chills going up and down his spine. He’d heard about it from other outfits, had read about such things in _Bandwagon_ , but hadn’t imagined it happening to a top-of-the-line flyer like the Princess – she was one of their biggest acts. “Is she…?” he began. Timtam nodded grimly.

“They told the rubes she’d just passed out so the show could go on, but…no.”

“How did it _happen_?”

“Didn’t see.”

“…I did,” muttered Seunghyun against Jiyong’s shoulder. Of course, thought the smaller man with horror, no wonder he was so distraught! It was one thing to watch a death in a motion picture scene, but right in front of your eyes… Even Jiyong, who liked to think he had a practical approach to mortality and had certainly proved it in the past, couldn’t imagine that without a shiver.

“My poor Tabi,” he said, and held Seunghyun harder. “How did…?”

“I don’t know,” replied Seunghyun indistinctly. He sniffed. “One second she was floating up there, and then-” He cut himself off. “Her neck.” Jiyong and Timtam both winced.

“So what happens now?” Jiyong stared over Seunghyun’s quivering shoulder at the quiet crowd and the ambulance.

“The gaffer and her manager’ll take her into town: the hospital, to confirm it and issue the certificate. After that…” The dwarf exhaled. “I guess we’re gonna be here a while. Prob’ly have to scrub a town or two off the route, but we gotta, it’s respect.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Jiyong softly, still cradling Seunghyun, who was gradually starting to calm. “This is the first circus death for me.”

“Wait a few more seasons.” Timtam spat cynically. “You won’t get many as big as Millie, but they’ll come.”

“I mean how do _we_ respect her?” Jiyong explained. “As one of our own.”

“I shall tell you,” said Timtam. “The time-honored and traditional way of our people.” Jiyong nodded. The little man clapped Seunghyun bracingly on the hip and jerked his head towards the train. “We all go back to the car, and we drink ‘til we fuckin’ pass out.”

“I’m with you on that,” muttered Seunghyun, wiping his eyes, one arm still clinging to Jiyong. The younger man nodded: Timtam was a callous son of a bitch but frankly it sounded like the perfect thing to do – and he bet everyone else on the train would follow suit.

“I’ll get Sky High,” Jiyong said. “You find Ed and the Wolf and the others. Tabi, go raid your stash; we’ll meet back at the car.”

“Super,” said Timtam dolorously. “Let’s have a wake.”

 

* * *

 

A week later they’d recovered from their hangovers and were sitting in the bright sun just outside a faraway town in Kansas. The Circus had mourned intensely and even single-mindedly for two days straight; then the Big Top lineup had been shuffled around, a couple of acts extended, and Sells-Floto was on the road again. Jiyong sure felt better for being active, and Seunghyun had gotten over his horror. But he guessed only time and familiar routine could fully reawaken the show.

The whole Circus was in shock – it’d been years since they’d had a _performer_ death, Timtam had said, toasting the brilliant Millie in several long pulls of Seunghyun’s moonshine. Any bitching people had done about her when she was alive stopped short outta respect; even Tomas managed to rein in his acidic jokes. Everyone was devastated – her personal manager, her fiancé in Hollywood, the entertainment papers. Terrell himself had shed a few tears, though that was on the way to her lavish and very public funeral so he really oughta. Jiyong wasn’t sure if this tragedy would hurt Sells-Floto or if all publicity was good publicity.

“You know the rubes,” Seunghyun told him cynically from the rigger car steps with an arm round Ezra’s shoulder. “They’re even more likely to pay up if they think they might see blood!” Millie’s rigger burst into tears; the wiry tech was one of the best, everyone said so, but he was still very young. Jiyong gave Seunghyun a glare for being tactless and sat down at Ezra’s right hand.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said gently, and by all accounts it wasn’t: everything had been rigged right for Millie’s rehearsed routine. It’d been _her_ idea, the others said, to swing off the trapeze and onto a nearby single rope to wow the crowd with the somersault trick. She should’ve known it was the wrong rope for those repeated turns: the friction had built up, the rope fraying as she turned over and over, and before the Fred the Equestrian Director could give the order to bring her down…she’d brought herself down[19]. When they found the end of the rope it was snapped in two. “You might as well blame the announcer, or Fred, or any of us.”

“She _said_ something bad would happen!” Ezra wailed; Seunghyun patted him on the back and Jiyong leaned against him. “After I…” Jiyong went still at that, and very thoughtful, remembering the last story he’d heard about this boy. After a minute Seunghyun exhaled incredulously.

“The Ouija crap?!” he exclaimed. The rigger sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“It’s over now,” Jiyong told Ezra quietly, and squeezed his arm. “And you’d never do it again, right?”

“No!! I didn’t know what would happen…”

“I know, I know.”

“Knock it off, the pair of you!” ordered Seunghyun. “It was an accident, even the other aerialists said so. That party was weeks and weeks ago, why would some ‘curse’ suddenly strike now?! You need to _calm down_.” They sat there despondently for a while, letting the young man cry.

“…What’m I gonna do?” said Ezra at last. How awful it must be, thought Jiyong, to lose the act you’d dedicated your skills to for so long; he felt a whole lotta pity for the rigger.

“Go to bed,” suggested Seunghyun. He reached over and pressed Jiyong’s hand. The smaller man smiled at him, gave Ezra’s shoulders another squeeze, and left them in the car doorway. His feet took him to the empty Big Top – there’d be no matinée today, just the night show. How long would everything feel this odd? Jiyong walked inside and stood staring up at the boundless canopy of the tent, imagining his silk hanging from the Top in a river of emerald. It would be so easy to die there, he thought: one mistake, one slip, and you were done. But at the same time he’d never felt so _alive_ as he did in the air – and he bet Millie had felt the same.

 

* * *

 

“There,” said Yuyan’s rigger, shinning down the ladder from the Ring One roof. “Looks fine, doesn’t it?” They all examined the wide ribbons of fabric, each side almost forty feet in length and shimmering dully as they hung from the Top.

“Pretty,” agreed Yuyan, yawning – it was Sunday morning and everyone else was still in bed: the perfect time to experiment. “But no meaning unless it works.” Jiyong nodded and slipped his shoes off. Impressively long as it was, the silk didn’t reach anywhere near the ground; the rigger jogged away and lowered the support it was hanging from so he could grab on to it. Jiyong tugged at both sides, then swung on each with his entire weight. It seemed sturdy enough. Bunching up one ribbon in his hands he began to climb it; it was more difficult than the rope.

“Hmm,” he said.

“Slippery?” inquired Yuyan. Jiyong nodded and she held out a small can of powder. “Use the rosin.” He slid down and coated his hands and the soles of his feet, then climbed back up.

“Much better!” he called down. He went higher, using one ribbon to climb and the other to make attractive shapes, then switching to hang between both. When he got about halfway he tried a simple footlock and arabesque pose, holding out the spare silk like a banner; it was extra effort to twist the fabric small enough to act as a rope, but in fact it was more comfortable than the corde lisse and the double ribbon would give him endless possibilities.

“Better put the net down,” he heard Yuyan say to her rigger; she obviously wasn’t as confident as he felt. Her caution paid off when Jiyong tried out a drop: it jarred him when he got to the bottom, more than the regular rope, and in his surprise he let go; it was only ten feet or so to fall but he was damn glad the net was there. “Safety gear every time!” ordered Yuyan, glaring up at him through the net.

“It just shocked me, that’s all, ‘cos it doesn’t have any give,” he explained, picking himself up and bouncing.

“Until you understand how to use it.” Jiyong leaped up and clasped the silk again.

“Then…you reckon it’s gunna work?” Yuyan gave the green river a critical look.

“…Yes,” she said, almost grudgingly. “I think it will be lovely.”

 

* * *

 

It took a long time for Jiyong to work out how to take full advantage of his new art form. He could only practice when one of the rings was free and Yuyan’s rigger had time to set up his silks and safety gear – and when he knew Seunghyun wouldn’t be around. Gradually, though, he _did_ improve. He would daydream about beautiful routines and the best sequences of moves to realize them, waiting in the cooch show dressing room or lying in the canvas car with Seunghyun’s head pillowed sleepily on his chest. He learned several more advanced tricks from Yuyan and invented a few for himself, and by late summer the act had really come along. He wished he could put it to music but he didn’t have the authority or personal clout to borrow any band members. All he could hope was that his requests for one of the Directors to come watch him would be granted. But the weeks went on, from Kansas to Oklahoma to Texas, and then it was September and he began to worry he’d never get beyond this.

Jiyong didn’t know why no-one but Yuyan’s troupe and a few other kinkers would voice their support for his new technique or even talk with him about it. If anything the minor performers seemed less receptive than the one or two stars who were kind enough to speak to him. He _knew_ the act was good, every one of Yuyan’s colleagues said it was worthy of a Ring Three spot at least – so why did his fellow Americans give it the cold shoulder? He knew if he couldn’t get the kinkers on his side there was no hope in hell of convincing management. But he struggled on in any case. He’d love to talk to Seunghyun about this problem; there was no-one whose mind he respected more than his Tabi’s, he’d surely have a useful opinion. But since Millie’s death the older man had been even more gung-ho about the dangers of the air, and so Seunghyun’s greatest gift right now was to bundle Jiyong into the canvas car after loading and wear him out so thoroughly that he forgot his frustrations.

Eventually Jiyong cracked and told Timtam what he’d been up to. He hadn’t dared confess to his sideshow companions, not even Flora – wouldn’t it be a betrayal to say he wanted to leave them for the legitimacy of the Big Top? But Timtam straddled both worlds so perhaps he could give Jiyong some perspective. The dwarf nodded from his bunk.

“Seen ya up there a couple times,” he informed Jiyong. “It sure surprised me.”             

“What didja think I was doing every day after set-up?” Timtam shrugged.      

“Figured you were fuckin’ one of your admirers.” Jiyong huffed, irritated: there was no persuading his friend that he wasn’t sleeping around.

“Nope. I’m trying to get an act in the show.”

“And how’s that goin’?” inquired Timtam, scratching his nuts through his pants. Jiyong rolled his eyes. “Not great, I’m guessin’.”

“Right. Timtam, d’you know why? I’m good, aren’t I?”

“Sure, it’s a real pretty sight. Perfect kinda act for ya.”

“Well then.” The smaller man looked down at Jiyong with what might even be sympathy.

“Kid, you’re with the sideshow. Would maybe be different if you were a ballet girl or even one of the cooch chicks. But you’re billed as a _freak_. I’m bettin’ there’s a few of those kinkers got their noses in the air ‘bout havin’ another one of us join ‘em.”

“But-” began Jiyong, who knew the social rules of this place only too well but had never treated them as impassable.

“If you wanna play with the big boys and girls you’ll need a leg-up,” continued Timtam decidedly. “‘Cos there’re those among the Big Toppers who’d just as soon cut it off ya. My advice? Charm someone into bein’ your champion – I’ve no doubt you got the goods.”         

“…Thanks a lot.” Jiyong sighed. It was never fun to get advice from the pessimistic little man, but he couldn’t deny he was often right.

“Here.” A flask hit Jiyong in the chest. “Be content with what you got. But I reckon I know you – and you won’t.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong knew the day would come when Seunghyun found out he’d been keeping a secret, and one bright morning outside San Antonio that day arrived. The spot was over a long weekend; with no tear-down or roll-out everyone had a chance to relax, and Jiyong was using that time to rehearse. He’d thought Seunghyun was in town replenishing his chemical supply, but as the younger man went into his final drop from the top of the silks to a hanging pose twenty feet above the ground he saw the small figure of his lover marching belligerently towards him from the edge of the Hippodrome. Jiyong gulped and waved for Yuyan’s rigger to bring him down. The man obeyed quickly, looking nervous – he wasn’t afraid of Jiyong but the riggers all knew Seunghyun personally and had no doubt felt the edge of his temper.

“ _Jiyong_!” barked Seunghyun, the moment his partner’s feet touched the ground. Jiyong gave him a smile, which did nothing. “Is this what you’ve been up to behind my back?!” Seunghyun was fuming, hands flexing like he wanted to shake him. “You _promised_ you’d stop.”

“I did stop doing the rope.” The older man gave him a withering stare.

“What kind of excuse is that? How old are you, twelve?!”

“Didja like it?” asked Jiyong, who saw he had no option but to brazen it out. Besides, he _knew_ he’d been great today. “I thought it up myself.”

“I…no!!” Seunghyun unclipped the mechanic and tossed the safety cable aside with some force; Yuyan and her friends turned their backs and tactfully left them to it. Jiyong folded his arms with a strategic pout. “I mean…” continued Seunghyun, going red, “it was beautiful, I’ve never seen anything like it, but I will _not_ have you make this an act! After what happened to Millie?!” He swallowed heavily and his eyes went distant; Jiyong could just imagine the parade of disastrous scenes he was picturing, but morally speaking the man didn’t really have a leg to stand on because this wasn’t personal, it was _professional_ and that wasn’t an area in which he cared to be ruled. Seunghyun knew it, too.

“Probably doesn’t matter anyway,” Jiyong told his jittery lover consolingly. “I can’t seem to get anyone but the other flyers to take an interest. But,” he added once he saw Seunghyun start to look pleased, “that won’t stop me trying! And nor can you.”

“Oh no?”

“I’m a grown-up, Tabi,” he reminded Seunghyun with a hint of smugness. The weight of being responsible for his own life was finally coming in handy! “And you _said_ you’re not here to dictate to me.”

“You’re not a grown-up,” Seunghyun told him drily, not pausing for even a beat. “You’re a child!” He threw his arm out in a gesture that encompassed the whole Hippodrome. “Only _your_ ego demands one hell of a playground!” Was that the only reason he thought Jiyong loved all this?

“ _Ego_ ,” replied Jiyong, with a heavy hand on the sarcasm. “This is _practical_! If we can boost our income we might not hafta work so hard through the winter.” He saw Seunghyun’s large eyes flash guilt at him – he knew the older man had hated when Jiyong had to take dive bookings or manual labor last off season. As if that was any fault of Seunghyun’s! Of all the stupid, chivalrous…dammit, his Tabi was _too_ charming. “It’s just that the Big Top pays more,” he continued gently. “I could quit the sideshow and the cooch show too, you’d like that. And if I can get a featured turn, maybe even my own manager…well, I could send more money home. And we might get a train car!” That was a flight of fancy, he knew, but the idea of having more private time with Seunghyun again was tantalizing – not to mention necessary if they wanted to really work through their difficulties, of which they clearly still had a few. He reached out and was delighted when the bigger man’s fingers met his own halfway.

“I would like that,” said Seunghyun in a low voice. “But I hate that you feel you gotta hustle for both of us – for _money_.” His intonation made it sound like a curse-word. Jiyong squeezed his hand, absently tugged him closer so he didn’t get run down by a passing procession of roustabouts with straw bales.

“Always the same, Tabi,” he scolded, smiling to soften the effect. “I’m not _just_ a gold-digger.” Ignoring Seunghyun’s retort he tipped his head back to gaze up at the dark heaven of the Big Top sixty feet above them, and imagined what it’d feel like to be up there for real, watched by ten thousand admiring people – what it would feel like to show them all. “…I just _want it_ ,” he murmured, and knew the hunger in his voice had reached Seunghyun when his lover threw both arms around him and held him tight.

“Then the reason doesn’t matter,” he heard Seunghyun mutter, that delicious rumble against his ear, and to his delight the older man continued: “You want it, you’ll get it – I’ll see to that.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17Spiritualism was having a bit of a renaissance in the 1920s, and ‘Ouija parties’ and séances were quite popular. The dangerous image that we now associate with Ouija boards through pop culture hadn’t really kicked in yet (though there were a few true crime stories of people who murdered their spouses etc. because they said the board told them to…). But Cirkies, like actors, were notoriously superstitious, and as we saw in Bombshell Jiyong has a fairly wide streak of that already…[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 18As a matter of fact aerial silks are a pretty modern invention (1990s for Cirque du Soleil), though people used ropes and things in a similar way before that. But for the purposes of this fic Jiyong is going to come up with them, although they won’t catch on ‘til much later.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 19Millie’s death here was inspired by the real-life death of Lillian Leitzel, who also took a fall during a performance. It was similarly used as a plot point in the fun 1952 film The Greatest Show On Earth about the Barnum & Bailey circus starring Charlton Heston, which is pretty entertaining and has great visuals and stunts.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> This week's chapter title is _'Do What You Do'_ , performed by Leo Reisman And His Orchestra (1929).  
>  Thank you all for hanging in through the dramatic last few episodes; now they're gonna have fun for a little while :)


	9. Blue Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Seunghyun is a helpful supportive boyfriend :)

Seunghyun’s turnaround on the issue of Jiyong’s career had charmed him so much he’d taken the older man to the outskirts of San Antonio after the Saturday show and splashed out on a room in a small hotel run by a local Mexican family. The room was on the ground floor with a little garden and an outside bath in warm pink stone that held the heat of the sun, and Jiyong used it to show his beloved his full appreciation.

“If I get to be a star we could have this all the time,” he murmured, tilting his head to brush Seunghyun’s ear with his lips. He shifted closer in the bigger man’s lap with a melodic splash of water. Somewhere outside the wall he could hear two dogs barking and the hotel owner scolding one of her kids in Spanish, but it didn’t seem to bother Seunghyun – he was getting hard again.

“I still think you’re mad,” Seunghyun told him fondly; his mouth traced a shivery line down Jiyong’s throat, large hands stroking his thighs. “But I get that you wanna be looked at.”

“You think I’m so vain…!” All Jiyong got was a chuckle of agreement and the press of Seunghyun’s erection against his ass.

“I’ll help you,” the older man told him again, after a long kiss to the crook of his neck that was gunna leave a mark. His hands grasped Jiyong’s hips and pushed him down suggestively. “If you help me first.” Jiyong gasped, and smiled. Even if those were just words he was grateful to hear them, and now his Tabi was gunna feel the full benefit of keeping him sweet.

 

* * *

 

Two days later they were outside Galveston and the luxuries of baths and beds were behind them. And yet when Seunghyun came to find Jiyong after setup he looked as pleased as if they were putting up at the Ritz.

“What’s with you?” asked Jiyong, smiling at him. They were walking in what little shade and privacy the off-side of the train afforded, Jiyong wearing an old straw hat against the sun and silently wishing he could buy a more modish piece of headwear without the certainty that it’d immediately be stolen by Timtam or an elephant.

“I said I’d help you, didn’t I,” said Seunghyun, batting at the brim of the hat to get his full attention. “No matter how dumb an idea it is.” Jiyong nodded uncertainly ‘cos he hadn’t really believed it – or at least hadn’t believed there was anything Seunghyun could actually do about it. The older man took him by the shoulders and drew him down to sit on the metal coupling between two cars. “Well, I managed to speak with Fred – he’s the Equestrian Director, you know?” Jiyong nodded, of course he did: he was in charge of the whole Big Top lineup. “And he put in a word with Terrell.”

“…Yeah?”

“It’s not much,” said Seunghyun. “But he’s agreed to let you have Ezra for your rigger – just to practice with.” Jiyong stared at him, eyes widening slowly. “No-one wants to let the poor bastard go,” Seunghyun went on quickly. “He’s talented and he’s got a mother to support. But they couldn’t think what else to do with him after that stupid rumor – these goddamn superstitious kinkers.” He peered into Jiyong’s face. “ _Please_ tell me you don’t think that way! I know you’re into this supernatural crap but you gotta know that Millie wasn’t Ezra’s fault.”

“I…” Seunghyun gave him a shake.

“Jiyong!”

“…Tabi, I love you!” announced Jiyong, and flung both arms round him. Seunghyun gave a ‘huh?’ of confusion, and he laughed dizzily. “I was shocked, that’s all, not ‘cos of the Ouija but because _I can’t believe it_! And he’ll really be mine?” he exclaimed, drawing back to cup the bigger man’s face. He’d been sure he’d used up most of his influence points with Terrell when they’d had that screaming match over Seunghyun and the cooch show; but perhaps this wasn’t a favor to Jiyong at all, perhaps the manager actually felt bad for Seunghyun. Whatever the reason, it was the best news he’d had all year!

“It’sh only a rigger,” Seunghyun reminded him indistinctly as Jiyong squished his cheeks. “Not a shpot in Shenter Ring!” Jiyong let up and kissed him instead.

“But it’s the first step, right? With a dedicated rigger we can plan a real routine, more beautiful stunts, and someone’s gotta notice and give me a chance… This is gunna _go_ somewhere, Seunghyun, finally! Thanks to _you_.”

“You’re welcome.” Seunghyun kissed him back, wearing that look of endless satisfaction at Jiyong’s happiness. “But Ezra’s mostly there to keep you safe.” His handsome face turned solemn. “He’d _better_.”

 

* * *

 

Seunghyun had no need to worry: Ezra was _good_. Almost immediately he brought his ideas to bear on the wrinkles Jiyong still hadn’t ironed out in his technique, the most pressing being how much doing long drops with the green silk made him ache.

“You think about changing fabric?” asked the young man once he’d lowered Jiyong carefully down, jogging over to where he was standing and shooting him a look of devoted concern that came from a combination of guilt over Millie and whatever terrible warning Seunghyun had given him about keeping Jiyong safe. Jiyong rubbed at his lower back and stretched to straighten everything out while Yuyan prodded at him critically. She and Ezra were right, he needed to find a fix: the more impressive and speedy his drops the more he was jolted by the silk at the end of his fall – sometimes it felt like his teeth were being rattled clean outta his head.

“To what?” inquired Yuyan.

“Something with some give, maybe.” The rigger mimed one of Jiyong’s rolling drops. “That way you could bounce a bit at the bottom and it’d lessen the impact.”

“It’d make climbing the damn thing more effort,” said Jiyong.

“Yeah, but it’d hurt less coming down.” Yuyan nodded and turned to Ezra.

“Such as?”

“How about that new rayon?” That had the Chinese woman frowning.

“It’s a synthetic,” Jiyong explained – out of the three of them he was definitely the clothing expert. “You know, a man-made fiber. It’d be way cheaper than silk, but the thing is, it doesn’t spring back very well – after a few shows it’d be stretched out for good.” Some of the girls had worn it back at the House but Jiyong’s tastes had been too expensive to bother with the stuff.

“So,” mused Yuyan, “strong and lasts but has stretch. Let me talk to my boys.” She padded out of the Top. Jiyong rubbed his ribs and felt sorry for himself: he loved his green silk, but he didn’t want it standing in the way of a more spectacular act.

“I gotta go have lunch,” he told Ezra when Yuyan didn’t return. “Sideshow’s gunna open soon.” His rigger seemed to wilt. Jiyong wondered if it was boring working for a non-performing act – there wasn’t really a lot for him to do – or if the man was just sorry he couldn’t help. “Why don’tcha go into town?” he suggested. “Look up the fabric store and ask ‘em, and if you think of anything come tell me.” Ezra nodded and hurried off. Jiyong sighed: it was hard being in charge of people when you had no power yourself. If Fred or Terrell didn’t give him a chance soon he was gunna have to _make_ one.

 

“Found it!” said Yuyan the next morning during the chaos of set-up. “Here, look.” She passed Jiyong a folded square of cloth: it was smooth and strong and gave a little when he tugged on it. “This is what he meant, yes?”

“I think so!” Jiyong watched it bounce back into shape; he peered closer at the weave. “What is it?”

“Bamboo,” she said proudly, and smirked at Jiyong’s disbelieving look. “My catcher’s uncle has a factory.”

“Is it common in China, then? It looks perfect!”

“Not common,” she told him.

“So…expensive?” She shrugged.

“If you pay, he can order for you. Which is more important, money or the act?”

“Which do you think?” At this point Jiyong honestly wasn’t sure: he knew he oughta save, but he wanted to make a go of this so bad! Yuyan sighed.

“I always ask myself too.”

“All right,” said Jiyong, deciding. “Lemme show it to Ezra. If he says okay, go ahead and buy it. Just tell me how much.”

Yuyan’s catcher came and took the order, then informed them it would take at least ‘til winter to get here. Jiyong didn’t have a lot of choice so he went ahead with it anyway, once Yuyan had assured him they’d already signed with Sells-Floto for another season – the lucky bastards, they must really be in demand to get a contract renewal this early. In the meantime he went back to looking for a way to get himself noticed.

 

* * *

 

In the end Jiyong’s entrance into the Big Top lineup came about fairly non-dramatically: as had been the case for most of his life, his bump in status didn’t happen through his own hard graft but in spite of it – he was _raised_ there by someone above him. Only this time that person was Seunghyun.

“We’re getting a new act,” Seunghyun told him when they met up for breakfast behind the cookhouse. These days the older man would come watch him during his practices, forcing himself to look although Jiyong knew it made his poor Tabi’s heart miss a beat with every drop. Jiyong was touched: he knew Seunghyun would rather be checking on his moonshine or reading whatever book he could get his hands on; he must’ve borrowed all the trashy novels and pulp magazines on the train at this point.

“ _Now_?” said Jiyong, pulling the scarf around his neck – no-one else was remotely cold yet but he’d always felt it in the mornings. “But it’s nearly October! There’s only a month left.”

“Yeah. He was contracted from the beginning of the season but he was out sick up to now; and we needed a replacement for poor Millie.” Seunghyun passed him another seafood po’ boy; they were deep in Mississippi now and the cookhouse workers were getting the local feel. “Actually, he broke his goddamn skull.”

“Jesus, what’s his act?”

“Human Cannonball.” Seunghyun laughed and shook his head at Jiyong’s expression. “I know, it’s exactly what it sounds like. And Terrell’s given _me_ the job of making sure he doesn’t break anything else.”

“No pressure!” said Jiyong, looking at him in concern. But, as always, when it came to explosions Seunghyun was unflappable.

“It’ll be fun. It’s extra money, and this guy’s a big deal so I might get some leeway when it comes to bending the rules.” Seunghyun leaned down and kissed his shoulder. “Worth taking on a lunatic, right?”

“Yeah,” Jiyong agreed with a grin. “And after a few days working with this guy perhaps you’ll see my act’s not so dangerous after all!”

 

“The man’s a maniac!” announced Seunghyun when Jiyong slid into the canvas car after his cooch act.

“What man?”

“Cliff Aeros.”

“Oh, the Cannonball arrived, huh? How’d it go?” Jiyong kicked off his boots and wriggled out of his dressing gown to join Seunghyun under the blankets. The older man snuggled him close and gradually started laughing. “What, Tabi?” asked Jiyong; he loved to hear that laugh.

“Well, good news is I don’t actually have to explode him: the whole thing’s a trick, all I need to do is make it _look_ like the cannon’s gone off. ‘The bigger the better’, he said.”

“Good!” Jiyong leaned his forearms on Seunghyun’s chest. “How _does_ it work, then?” Seunghyun grinned up at him.

“Rubber bands[20].” The smaller man burst out laughing. “Really big ones,” said Seunghyun. He sighed. “But seriously, it’s no joke: that contraption is _massive_ , it can shoot him two hundred feet and I’m meant to be in charge of it! Checking the mechanism, the elevation, the distance of the net… Plus he wants me and the other assistants to dress like _soldiers_.”

“Christ.”

“Fred thinks just ‘cos I was in Science at college I’m the obvious choice.”

“You are though, aren’t you?” said Jiyong, who had boundless confidence in his Tabi’s abilities. “Even if you didn’t study Physics or whatever. The guy’s obviously gunna feel safest with you.”

“Yeah, well, he says so. He seemed way too thrilled to be working with me; I’m telling you, the man’s cuckoo, he’s like a…a ball of electricity. He’s still wearing bandages but he wants to rehearse as soon as we arrive in Jackson and start performing tomorrow night!”

“Wow. Hope I can catch his act before the cooch show.”

“You’ll be cutting it fine,” Seunghyun told Jiyong apprehensively. “We’re closing out the show: Terrell put him on as the goddamn headliner.”

“Oh, Tabi.” Jiyong took his lover’s handsome head in both hands and kissed him while the train started vibrating as if in response: they were off. “You’re gunna be great. And if he is the biggest shot – hah, no pun – in town, you’re gunna rise with him!” He kissed Seunghyun again, happy as could be and hoping he’d have his own success story before long. “Next year’ll be our year – you’ll see.”

 

* * *

 

The Cannonball act went off with a bang, to put it mildly, and to Seunghyun’s blatant surprise nobody got hurt. Cliff might’ve suffered a mild concussion when he slammed into the net but he was so daffy anyway it was impossible to tell. That’s what Seunghyun said, at least. Jiyong had figured a daredevil would be chisel-jawed and stoic and butch – which was sure how Cliff looked in his posters. But when he met him in real life the German was like a puppy, continually overexcited and apparently heedless of danger. Seunghyun quickly got used to his new duties, and must’ve got used to the Cannonball too: whenever Jiyong saw them together they were giggling. He was glad to see it, and even gladder when Cliff appeared one lunchtime while he was rehearsing.

“People keep telling me I got to see this!” he yelled at Jiyong, who was thirty feet up and hanging by one leg in a vertical splits. Jiyong grabbed the silks to rotate himself ‘til Cliff came into view: he was grinning. “Show me something!” Jiyong smiled back at him and performed a short routine, more daring than balletic to please the adventurous German. As he did so he wondered what people had been singing his praises; Seunghyun, of course, and maybe Yuyan.

He finished with a long spinning drop, head-first toward the sawdust, relaxing into the jolt – he couldn’t wait for his new fabric! – and striking a contortionist’s pose. Even at the bottom of the drop he was twenty feet from the ground. When he looked down, panting, Cliff was literally bouncing up and down on his heels.

“That – is – _something_ ,” he called up at Jiyong. Ezra slowly lowered the hoist and Jiyong floated back to earth, breathless and blushing at the praise.

“Thank you, Sir!”

“But you’re not in the show?” Jiyong shook his head, making sure to look sad. “Shall I have a word with someone?” offered Cliff in his excellent English. “I want to see it with all the bells and whistles!”

“Really? You would?” said Jiyong; he could feel his face splitting into a hopeful grin. He knew he oughta be sensible – but wasn’t there a chance this top-billed star could do it for him at last? Cliff nodded blithely and Jiyong wanted to kiss him. Instead he thanked him over and over, then left to find Seunghyun and give _him_ the best thank-you he could imagine.

Nothing happened the next day, or the day after that. Then it was Sunday and Jiyong began to manage his expectations a bit better: he had no doubt Cliff had meant it, but he seemed a heat-of-the-moment type of guy. Most likely he’d forgotten all about it. Seunghyun told him to be patient, which was all very well for _him_ : if he had his way Jiyong would never get further off the ground than the top bunk. Monday rolled around and Ezra set up in Ring Three as soon as the Big Top was raised – business as usual. But this time when Jiyong got done practicing he found the Equestrian Director[21] watching him. He hurried down off the silks as fast as he could; Fred had definitely seen him up there before as he strode past, but Jiyong had never been able to get the man to _stop_. And now here he was, sitting on the edge of the ring and giving the act his full attention.

“Jiyong, isn’t it?” asked Fred as the aspiring acrobat trotted up to him. Jiyong nodded; the Director knew the name of every kinker under the Top, it was his job, but the sideshow was outside his domain. “I gather this was your invention,” he said, nodding at the silks.

“Yessir, but I had a lot of help.”

“You want to join the show?” Jiyong nodded so hard it hurt his neck. “Quit the sideshow?”

“…It’s not that I want to quit it,” said Jiyong carefully. “But I’ve dreamed of the Big Top since I was a kid.”

“It’s all right,” said Fred with a shrewd look, “no-one _chooses_ to be an oddity.”

“D’you think I have a chance, Sir?” His heart was pounding; some other performers were peering at them now, and if the Director said no Jiyong didn’t know how he’d keep his brave face on. Fred looked thoughtful.

“…I like it,” he said, once Jiyong was ready to faint from holding his breath. “Cliff Aeros does, too. It needs some finessing, but I can see you warming up the crowd for the bigger aerial acts. You’d have to cover the tattoos for the matinée, mind.” Jiyong exhaled in a rush and his hands began shaking. Fred unfolded his tall form and set a hand on his shoulder. “Steady on, kid. I said I like it; but in the end it’s not my decision.”

“Oh…” murmured Jiyong, emotions ready to plummet again.

“I’ll have to speak to Zack.”

“Ah.” Jiyong knew the manager had extremely mixed feelings about him. He also knew Terrell would rather pay him sideshow wages than Big Top, so he ordered himself to rein in his hope. Fred must’ve seen how dejected he looked.

“I _will_ speak to him, when I get a chance. You have to catch him in the right mood.”

“I’d work so hard for him,” promised Jiyong. “For all of you, I’d never let you down!” The Director observed his shining eyes with something like amusement.

“Yes, I’m sure. Go on now and have your lunch.” Jiyong gave him a weird bob-cross-bow, embarrassing himself in his nervousness, and tripped away to get changed for the afternoon sideshow. He knew he was too het-up to eat. As he went he spotted Yuyan waving at him from upside-down near the roof, and waved back giddily; but as he made his way past the other rehearsing kinkers he thought there were a few faces that didn’t look so happy for him.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong waited and worked ‘til he couldn’t wait any longer. He didn’t wanna bug Terrell before Fred had even spoken to him but it’d been days now and he was bursting. First, though, he consulted Seunghyun.

“Yeah, talk to him, why not?” said the older man. They were lying in a sparse patch of grass just over a rise, the Circus out of sight. Any chilly weather had been left behind and here in Alabama’s unseasonal Indian summer it felt nothing like October: Seunghyun had brought an umbrella out to shade Jiyong’s skin. But it _was_ October. Only a couple of weeks left ‘til the home run, thought Jiyong, frowning. He _had_ to get his chance before then!

“It’s all right for you, Tabi, your skills have value. I don’t do anything the gaffer couldn’t stand to lose.”

“That’s ‘cos he hasn’t seen your act yet,” Seunghyun told him staunchly. “Corner him when he’s in the agent’s tent and ask him if he wouldn’t mind coming over – _nicely_!”

“I’m always nice,” said Jiyong, which definitely wasn’t true and Terrell knew it. Besides, that was a bit rich coming from Seunghyun, who threw the most spectacular tantrums Jiyong had ever seen.

“You want me to ask?”

“Would you?” said Jiyong. He reached up to brush a drop of sweat from Seunghyun’s temple and rearranged the umbrella to put them both in the shade.

“What am I here for?” Seunghyun smiled and kissed his hand. “Of course I will.”

Jiyong guessed the manager must’ve given Tabi a pretty vague answer, ‘cos two more days passed and Terrell didn’t come; they were in Decatur now and edging ever closer to the end of their run. He knew he oughta be concerned with what he and Seunghyun were going to do that winter: would they head down to Tampa with Timtam again or stay with the main Circus body in Peru? It all depended on Terrell now. So he asked.

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard all about it,” said his boss, who was going over a set of books in the tent. He obviously didn’t thrive in the Alabama heat, his big ears were red and flustered and he was in his shirtsleeves with half the buttons undone. Terrell gave Jiyong’s cool, slender form a resentful glance.

“Well…whaddya think?”

“Oh, we’re too close to end of season to start messing about with a new act now; ask me again in March.” Jiyong made himself look like a crestfallen kid, which wasn’t hard.

“Please, Sir. If I could just show you, I _know_ you’d give me a spot! And I could work on it all winter.” Terrell wrote something in a book and gave a long-suffering sigh.

“Do you know how much goes into adding an act? All the timings have to be shuffled, assistants assigned, not to mention coordinating with the band to suit your performance; you can’t just shin up a rope and have at it!”

“Yes, Boss, I know.”

“I don’t think you do!” Terrell patted his forehead with a hanky. “Beginning and end of season are my busiest times.”

“But can’t the Director do all that?”

“Just…go away, Jiyong, will you?” Jiyong noted the redness spreading to his manager’s face and wisely obeyed.

“That’s bullshit,” Timtam opined later, while he was waiting for Jiyong to finish hogging the mirror so he could apply his face paint – he was down to box that evening and the rubes got way more excited when the little people were in costume. “If the gaffer wanted to, he could get Fred to do it. That’s his job in a nutshell.”

“So why _won’t_ he?” The dwarf leaned against Jiyong’s hip, edging him out of the way while he was still applying his lip rouge.

“You ever thought he maybe just _doesn’t like you_?” he suggested. Jiyong felt hurt at that; he made Sells-Floto enough money, didn’t he? _And_ he’d agreed to do the damn cooch show that’d caused so much trouble with Seunghyun. He was sure he was less of a diva than half the headliners. Timtam hopped on the stool and gave him a slightly kinder look. “Or maybe it ain’t you – told ya already that some kinkers don’t take kindly to mixin’ with the sideshow. Maybe they’re twistin’ his arm.”

“That’s so goddamn mean.”

“Grow up, kid, that’s how this world works!”

“Yeah,” sighed Jiyong. “But if I could just get him to _see_ me…”

“Buck up.” Timtam drew a fearsome skeletal grin across his face and turned to leer at him with it. “You never know what’ll happen.”

 

* * *

 

He went up on the silks the next day anyway, soared and tumbled in a slow and rather forlorn way while Yuyan’s troupe defied gravity in Center Ring, as much to take his mind off his comatose career as to practice. He’d need to have Seunghyun really take it out on him tonight, wanted to hand control of his mind and body to his beloved and drown his sorrows in sensation. Below him Seunghyun was watching, as was Timtam, for some reason.

“C’mon!” shouted his small friend. “Show us what you got!” Jiyong shrugged and began to move again; he tried to simply enjoy the healthy suppleness of his body and the comforting cocoon of the fabric, and was rewarded when he had sunk far enough into the moment that he began to hear music. With great concentration he elevated his legs slowly into a handstand between the two ribbons – he was really getting strong! – and once he was gazing straight down he saw he wasn’t imagining the melody: below him was Cliff the Cannonball and a small band of musicians he’d obviously commandeered from around the lot. There was a clarinet, a tenor sax, and down at the feet of the others the legless but confident form of the Frog Girl with her banjo; they were playing slow Dixieland jazz, with Cliff excitedly snapping his fingers and stamping his foot to keep time. Astonished, Jiyong exited the handstand and rolled into a half-centerlock to listen; it was weird enough to have Timtam up and about before noon, but this took the cake.

“Go on, then!” called Timtam, who didn’t seem to give a crap that everyone was staring. “Let’s see ya swing to this beat.” Beside him even Seunghyun was tapping his toes to the band; the daredevil caught his eye and they both grinned and started clapping in sync. Jiyong shook his head; if nothing else the spectacle had perked him up. He swung into a routine, he’d never tried to time it to music before but the cool, relaxed pace and steady clapping made it feel easy. He’d always thought that something so elegant as his silk belonged to classical music, but this was the _best_!

“Heat it up, fellas!” he heard Cliff urge the band excitedly, and after a bit of fuddling they changed tempo. Jiyong sped up with them, from a boneless arabesque into an inverted hang. As the blood rushed to his head he was amazed to see Terrell stroll out from the back door tunnel onto the Hippodrome, cigar between his lips and a young lady on each arm. Jiyong froze for a beat but the band was swinging, they wouldn’t wait for him and he spun into a bullet drop; as he held it at the bottom of the silks he saw one of the girls was Yvette, the French cooch dancer, and the other was one of his coworkers too! Terrell was smoking as usual and looking expansive: his collar was undone and he had the stance of a guy who’d just got blown. Jiyong huffed to himself and quickly climbed the fabric again for some more complex moves – he wished _he’d_ considered that way to the top. But no, Terrell was as likely to fire him as let him offer _that_ kind of favor.

“Do the no-hands drop!” suggested Seunghyun, who was now stamping his foot alongside Cliff like a pair of yokels. Jiyong looked down at him, puzzled, but couldn’t see his expression clearly at this height; Seunghyun _always_ freaked out when he tried that, and today he wasn’t wearing the mechanic. Oh, well, why not? It looked hard but it was one of the moves he hardly ever messed up. Below him Cliff was exaggeratedly hushing the musicians, who lowered their volume to an expectant pianissimo. Jiyong prepared the turns and wraps of fabric as elegantly as he could, making it part of the dance. Then he let go his hands, unhooked the crucial loop, and began the twenty-foot tumble down the silk. It felt peachy, it always did, like he was really flying! It was the fastest he’d ever moved, his head spinning and a grin covering his face without him even willing it. Dimly he heard a collection of gasps and the music stopped as he pulled up with a jerk in his finishing pose – scarily close to the bottom of the ribbon. And there was Terrell, _watching_.

Jiyong grabbed the fabric again, his already-racing heart skipping a beat. He flapped a signal at Ezra, who lowered him smoothly down to the ring floor. The rush of chemicals to his brain was so intense he couldn’t stand still; luckily Cliff bounded over to grab his arms and attempt to do some kinda jig. Jiyong started laughing like an idiot.

“Well?” he heard Seunghyun say warmly; his lover had sidled up to Terrell. “Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, Boss,” put in Cliff, his arm now around Jiyong’s throat with really too much gusto. “What can it hurt?” Terrell narrowed his eyes at the lot of them and briskly disengaged his shapely companions, one of whom went to crouch down and whisper in Timtam’s ear. He puffed furiously at the cigar.

“…Please, Sir,” said Jiyong softly, stepping closer; he might never get lucky enough to have the man right here again. “I’ll work so hard, I _promise_.” There was a long pause in which the makeshift band – who’d lost interest now Cliff had calmed down – could be heard squabbling. Jiyong stopped breathing.

“All right!!” Terrell threw up his hands and gave them glares all around. “Just quit bending my ear. You can try it _once_ : final date in New Orleans before the home run, that gives you a week to prepare. Ring Three, during the elephant show. If the rubes even notice you with all that going on, I’ll consider it.” He wagged his large ringed finger in Jiyong’s face. “But remember, I’ll be watching; and I’ll be judging you _very_ carefully.” And with that he sailed right through them and puffed off.

“Oh my God!” As soon as Terrell was out of earshot Jiyong flung his arms around Seunghyun’s neck and squeezed him – he didn’t care who was looking, not now! “You convinced him, Tabi, I can’t _believe_ it! And you, Sir,” he added, turning to beam at Cliff, who was tugging at the silks with a speculative expression like he was dying to have a go on them. The German gave him a flash of white teeth. Seunghyun patted the smaller man on the back ‘til he was ready to let go.

“There,” said Timtam briskly. “Sorted! You owe me a drink.”

“Hey,” Jiyong replied once his brain had come back down to earth, “what was the gaffer doing here this early anyway?” Timtam made one of his suggestive gestures.

“Those two gals were givin’ him a tour of the dressing rooms and they finished at an opportune moment.” He waggled his eyebrows. Jiyong stared at him.

“…Timtam, did you _arrange_ that?” The dwarf looked pleased with himself.

“Just to stop you keepin’ me up nights complaining.”

“But…how?!”

“I’m friends with one of those showgirls. Not the French one, the blonde with the guns.” Jiyong folded his arms. “Okay, I’m teachin’ her to juggle and once in a while we screw,” Timtam explained. “Asked her if she wouldn’t mind doin’ a favor – and doin’ the boss won’t hurt _her_ career any, either.” Seunghyun was blushing as the smaller man went on; he must’ve known something about this, but evidently not the graphic details.

“And the band?” That’d really made the act. Jiyong glanced over at Cliff, but he was determinedly climbing the silks and sliding down. The Frog Girl – Carolina – piped up; the other two musicians had gone.

“The man wanted to dance and he wanted to dance _here_. He’s pretty persuasive.” She slung the banjo across her back. “So, this mean you’ll be leaving us oddities?” Jiyong gazed around at this mismatched group of people and felt a great welling of affection for all of them. He didn’t wanna abandon his sideshow friends, who’d been so good to him; but he had to stretch for the Top. He told himself then and there that he’d never be one of the snooty kinkers who’d perhaps tried to keep him down: he would be the one to bridge the divide between the Cirkies. After all, they were all pretty far from normality; and none of them belonged anyplace but here.

 

* * *

 

From the moment Jiyong walked out under the Big Top and saw the crowd he was hooked. He’d rehearsed with other kinkers around him before, but the noise and color and smells that had overwhelmed him the first time he’d seen the Spec hit him twice as hard now he was _part_ of it all. It was the ‘home sweet home’, the very last night of the season, and they had almost a full house: ten thousand citizens of New Orleans to be enchanted, and folk from that magical city would take some impressing. It didn’t matter that most of them weren’t looking at his small figure as he made his way to Ring Three ahead of the performing elephants: the applause made him ecstatic regardless of whether it was for him or them or the great living, breathing beast that was the Circus as a whole. He felt honored to be even one little blood cell in its beating heart.

He kicked off his shoes outside the ring and bounded in, waving – one or two kids near the front waved back but everyone else was gawping at the elephants. He stopped in the center, where Ezra lowered his silks enough for him to grab on; as soon as he had a firm grip his rigger raised the hoist and drew him upward above the crowd. The view from up here was incredible, he thought as he rose, spinning: the sea of faces, the other aerial and ground acts brightening the rings and stages, and directly below him the eight elephants and their lovely riders doing a lumbering ballet. Jiyong took it all in, breathed a deep breath of sawdust and popcorn, and began his routine. All the acts were working to the same music and he’d only rehearsed to it once, but with some effort he could keep up. As he turned a series of somersaults between the ribbons he caught sight of Ezra crouched by the edge of the ring, watching him single-mindedly. And beside him was Seunghyun! Jiyong smiled down at him in pure delight, even though the older man looked anxious as hell.

Jiyong let Seunghyun be and continued his act, bigger and faster, and a few more of the pink blobs that were faces began turning his way. By himself he knew he was eye-catching although he had to admit the elephants blew him outta the water: Fred had told him to look ‘exotic’ so he’d borrowed one of the Chinese troupe’s old costumes, tight and scarlet with a high collar, and had darkened his eyes with kohl to make them pop. As he hung upside down by one foot and turned he heard a kid’s voice yell:

“Whoa, Momma, look!” A little boy was pointing at him. Grateful, Jiyong wanted to reach out to the kid in some way, but the distance from the middle of the ring to the stands was too great. Well, but who said he had to stay here? Flipping himself back upright he began to swing, the weight of his body coaxing the fabric to move like a pendulum. He wound his legs in tightly with the silk and swung out farther toward the audience. Below him Ezra was looking flummoxed: they hadn’t rehearsed this. But Jiyong didn’t care, he could see the rubes’ faces now, more and more turning to look at him, and the feel of their attention was giddying. On the next swing Jiyong stretched out both arms and waved happily at the kid who’d pointed – he was so close he could see his freckles and hear his mother’s gasp. The kid waved back and gave him a sticky grin.

The band was close to the end of their piece and the elephants below him were gearing up for their last trick, in which they’d stand on their hind legs and line the ring with the riders doing a handstand on their heads. Jiyong quit swinging and as soon as the fabric stilled he prepared his final big drop. The crowd was cheering and exclaiming all the way around the tent, and though he knew most of it wouldn’t be for him he couldn’t help thinking that a tiny bit _was_. He tumbled into his drop as the elephant riders took their final pose, and ended his routine triumphantly just above their heads; one of them winked at him. The Big Top filled with a roar of approving voices. Jiyong’s pulse was singing, high as a kite on the feeling as the animals lumbered out of the ring and Ezra lowered him down. When he hit the floor he could barely stand, but he managed a turn and a wave and a bow before stumbling off, forgetting his shoes.

He found Seunghyun grinning at him by the back door tunnel, still looking slightly terrified but altogether loving. Ezra jogged up and gave him his shoes, then clapped him on the back.

“Jesus, I didn’t know you were gonna do that!”

“The swing?” said Jiyong, panting. “Nor did I.”

“Gimme a signal next time, okay?” scolded his rigger, who was sweating. “If you fall off _I’m_ the one who’s meant to try and catch you!” Jiyong only heard one part of that.

“…You think there’ll be a next time?!” he said eagerly. Seunghyun squeezed his shoulders.

“Let’s go find out.”

They found Terrell in one of the expensive star back seats, eating a hot dog and watching the show complacently. He scowled at Seunghyun.

“Don’t you have fireworks in a minute?”

“Yes, Boss,” said Seunghyun, and pushed Jiyong forward. “But first tell us: does he have a spot next season or not?” Terrell squinted at Jiyong.

“You almost gave me a heart attack,” he said severely. “When you started using that damn thing as a swing.” Jiyong ducked his head meekly, then heard the manager say: “…But you did it with good instincts. You made a connection with those people, and that’s what they’ll remember.” Jiyong raised his eyes to stare at him. “…Yes,” Terrell told him, and smiled a very small smile at his gasp. “You might have what it takes. Next year you can have a _minor_ spot in the Big Top – and if you want to you can quit the sideshow and the other one. Come see me after the home run, we’ll sort out the details then.” Jiyong could feel Seunghyun grinning in relief, but not as widely as he was himself.

“ _Thank you_ , Boss, you won’t regret it!” he cried. Terrell flapped a hand at him.

“All right, shove off. There’s still half a show to do.” Jiyong and Seunghyun left the stands and pushed open one of the tent flaps to emerge in the cool night air. Now he was outside Jiyong realized he was shaking: after all these years, here he was – exactly where he’d dreamed he would be.

“I gotta go do the light show and get ready for Cliff’s finisher,” Seunghyun told him apologetically. He leaned down and kissed Jiyong on the mouth, a stand of Southern rubes just three feet away on the other side of the canvas. “But I’m so proud of you, darling, even if you _are_ crazy; and I couldn’t love you more.” Jiyong felt a more intimate warmth course through him at Seunghyun’s words; he felt that with the prospect of his leaving the cooch show the two of them were finally solid again. And next season they’d be working side by side! He stretched up to steal one more kiss before the older man ducked back inside to go to work. Jiyong sat down in the dust and looked up at the stars, recalling the sheer pleasure of having the crowd see him like that – seeing him raised so high. He was prouder of himself than he’d ever been in his life.

 

* * *

 

They decided to stay in Peru that winter with the bulk of the Circus; Jiyong was anxious to get his act up together and Gibtown simply didn’t have the facilities. He and Seunghyun had only been in Indiana a few days at a time before, traveling up with Terrell and the other Sells-Floto members who wintered in Florida to begin the season. Last year they’d arrived late in Peru and the whole Circus apparatus was already done with rehearsals. The entire outfit had been bundled onto the train and rolled out for Chicago, at which time Jiyong and Seunghyun had had to find a room in town before heading off to the next stop. They’d arrived back at the end of October and immediately returned to Florida. This year would be different.

“You ain’t comin’ back with us?” asked Edgar in surprise when he poked his head into Jiyong’s train car to find he hadn’t packed anything. Seunghyun shook his head – now that the season was over the social rules dissolved and he could be in Jiyong’s territory as much as he pleased. Edgar shrugged. “Good luck freezin’ your balls off.”

“I know it,” said Jiyong, who was already shivering.

“You want I should show you around?” offered the clown, obviously angling for a farewell bottle. Seunghyun produced one from the depths of Jiyong’s bedclothes and gave it to him.

“Why?” inquired the younger man – he still thought his lover was an idiot for just giving the stuff away half the time, though it sure had made him popular. “What’s to show?”

“You kiddin’?” Edgar stashed the bottle on his person and tramped down the car steps. “This place ain’t like Gibtown, it’s the _permanent_ winter quarters, and as usual you saps don’t know nothin’.”

As he led them away from the cars – now decoupled from the engine so they probably weren’t going anywhere but into a storage building – and through a village of tents, Jiyong saw he was telling the truth: it was like a town in its own right. He immediately began to fantasize about hot showers, confident that beside him Seunghyun was helpfully taking note of everything.

“There’s a shed for the train cars, offices and studios, menagerie building, lumber yard and workshops, cookhouse, store; then barracks and stuff for singles, and one for couples – married only,” said Edgar. “Or you can rent someplace in town like you do while we’re in Chicago. But you gotta pay for all that; if you wanna stay rent-free you can just keep sleepin’ on the train. It ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Jiyong glanced up at Seunghyun; the more money they saved the better. But he wanted them to be intimate, too! “Ah, you’ll have plenty of private space,” the clown told them with a leer. “Half the Cirkies are runnin’ home and some just wanna get away from the damn train. Timtam’s packin’ now – there’s a truck headed to the station on the hour, we’re all off.”

“He’s going with you, is he?” Jiyong touched Seunghyun’s wrist. “I’ll just run and say goodbye. You decide about the housing, Tabi, I honestly don’t care as long as it’s with you.” He trotted off past the stables and other vast buildings to the line of cars. Timtam was chucking his belongings into a canvas bag and whistling; as Jiyong stepped inside he saw the dwarf hook a half-full bottle of Seunghyun’s moonshine outta Ed’s bed and drop it in with his own belongings.

“You’re as bad as the Prohis,” Jiyong chided. Timtam glowered at him – no-one liked that comparison.

“Yeah, well, your man’s gonna be up here cookin’, so Ed won’t miss it – I need it more!” He added a dog-eared notebook to the bag.

“You going now?” Jiyong hopped up on Sky High’s bunk and sat there swinging his legs.

“Figured you’d be glad of the extra space, Princess.” Timtam smirked at him.

“What’cha gunna do down there, anyway?” said the younger man. He’d got used to having him around, had ended up relying on him for advice from the beginning. It’d be everso quiet without him.

“Coupla shows, maybe. Chew the fat and relax. Got a few irons in the fire,” said Timtam mysteriously.

“Why don’tcha stop up here with us?” asked Jiyong. “I know there’s vaudeville and carnivals round here too.” Timtam didn’t actually seem to do a lot of work in the winter; perhaps he could afford not to.

“Too damn cold!” Very true. “And Gibtown’s home.”

“But you don’t even have a house,” argued Jiyong with a smile. Timtam shrugged.

“My brother’s buried there,” he said. Jiyong went quiet, ‘cos what could you say to that? He knew the ties of family very well; he also knew it was all the smaller man had left. “So, there ya go.” Timtam didn’t look angry, just slung on his coat and buttoned up warmly. He pointed at his traveling bag and Jiyong heaved it off the bunk for him. “Behave yourself, kid,” he advised as he pulled his cap on. “See ya March.”

“Bye,” called Jiyong at his departing figure. He felt kinda blue, which was very unlikely to be about Timtam personally. No, he knew what it was: he wanted to go home too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20Cliff Aeros in fact joined Sells-Floto in 1929, but I’ve moved it forward for plot purposes as it’s not a key date. He brought with him a rather historic German cannon that had been used by an older human bullet (who was killed by it). It worked on winching back a set of rubber bands the size of inner tyres and letting them go suddenly to propel the performer hundreds of feet. Not a lot of health and safety! (The Aurora Democrat (1937), 28:21. Thank you, Internet, for your bounty of obscure scanned materials!)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 21The Equestrian Director was what we now think of as the ‘ringmaster’. Originally they’d be in charge of the liberty horses’ routine but by this time were responsible for the smooth running of the entire Big Top performance and its acts, as well as the kinkers’ various personal issues. Fred Ledgett was the real Director for Sells-Floto at this time and was basically the next level of manager under Terrell.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> This chapter's title song is _'Blue Skies'_ by Irving Berlin, performed by Josephine Baker (1927). Bit of a simple undramatic chapter, I wanted to get Ji's career off the ground and have Seunghyun actually be helpful haha. Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Also, if you're digging this happy mood, check out my new one-shot gtop fic _Summer of '69_ with 1960s hippie JIyong :)


	10. The Murder Ballad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys deal with a blast from the past, and Jiyong finally gets a ride :)

Not a whole lot happened that winter and Jiyong was grateful for it. He and Seunghyun stayed in the train shed with some other Cirkies, hopping from car to car in order to have space for themselves. They explored the winter quarters properly: they were huge, warehouses and offices and cottages and a virtual zoo – nothing like Gibtown. It wasn’t only Sells-Floto that used it but also the other outfits owned by the American Circus Corporation, and they tended to run together at the edges. Jiyong got lost almost every day for the first week. Most of the roustabouts and candy butchers went elsewhere to work the carnivals and indoor shows, as did the sideshow folk and kinkers with winter engagements or permanent homes elsewhere. Flora was off to Wisconsin, Terrell to New York before he went down to Tampa for the New Year; but there were still hundreds of people and animals around, relaxing and rehearsing and eating for a fee in the cookhouse building.

Jiyong got Ezra to set up his silks in the cavernous barn where the aerialists practiced before the young man went home to his mother. There were only a few other flyers around, the stars all had managers who’d whisked them away to the big cities. He didn’t mind; he was more comfortable alone, anyway. He went up every day and worked on his routine, running laps of the quarters to warm up. That was the worst part about Peru, Jiyong quickly decided: compared to the balmy winter of Florida it was freezing, snow on the ground by December. Seunghyun rented an oil heater from the housing manager and they humped it round to whatever car they spent the night in – Jiyong would never have dared take off his clothes without it. They bathed in the barracks, Seunghyun guarding his lover closely in the shared bathroom while Jiyong shivered through his beauty routine.

Seunghyun did a little bit of moonshining in one of the currently unused baggage cars, stashing the bottles in odd corners of the train for the upcoming season; but he quickly got bored. Jiyong couldn’t fill his entire day with rehearsing either, so he suggested they go reacquaint themselves with Peru proper; maybe they could find a spot of work. He was damned if he was gunna toil in a factory again with the prospect of a pay rise in his future, but if there were any sideshows he might be lucky enough to get hired. They hitched a ride in on one of the feed trucks and found it as they’d left it: too small to be called a city, not above twelve thousand people at Seunghyun’s guess. After a bit of shopping they went to scope out their respective areas of work, going on information gleaned from the menagerie assistants back at the quarters: they were mostly local African- and Chinese-Americans and were a damn sight more helpful than the cop they asked for directions. Jiyong guessed the Cirkies usually raised some hell when they were in town so the police were unlikely to wanna make friends.

Seunghyun quickly found the church school he’d been pointed to in the poorer quarter. It was an Elementary and small, and of course not a white child among them. Jiyong sat in a coffeehouse round the corner and kept warm while the older man went to inquire about tutoring, giving his university credentials and his Florida gig from last winter as a reference. When he came back he was smiling.

“Four days a week after school,” he said. “English and Math. They’re ever so cute.” Seunghyun liked kids – he’d better do, with the small amount they could pay him. Jiyong was very proud his partner hadn’t lost his love of teaching. He was also relieved: giving Seunghyun something to do oughta save Jiyong the trouble of keeping him off the sauce. They wrapped up and went on, Seunghyun with a protective arm around the smaller man’s shoulders to ward off a bit of the snowy chill, Jiyong lending his lover his earmuffs ‘cos he was sneezing and almost certainly catching a cold. When they found the small entertainment district, though, Jiyong heard he’d been beaten to the post.

“Got a picture show already,” said the proprietor of the sideshow. “The Hagenbeck-Wallace guy pipped you.”

“Darn.” With so many circuses wintering in Peru he should’ve guessed it. 

“Try Wabash over in the next county; it’s only a matter of fifteen miles. They got a little Odditorium.” So Jiyong hitched another ride – people were clearly used to seeing circus folk around – and another and another, ‘til they arrived on the outskirts of the town of Wabash.

“This is _not_ feasible,” complained Seunghyun as the truck pulled away. “I don’t want you hitching by yourself! Anything could happen.” Jiyong just took his arm and began walking; he wasn’t loving this either. For a moment he thought with regret of Mr. and Mrs. Palmer’s Bentley – he’d had things so easy back in Chicago!

However, once they found the place Jiyong was pleased to hear they didn’t have a tattoo act, and certainly not one who could sing; he was promptly engaged for the weekends and festival days. The manager seemed almost offended that they’d had to hitch in.

“This ain’t Outer Mongolia,” he told Jiyong like he was a simpleton. “We got two bus routes that stop at Peru.” So they went home that way. Jiyong lay wrapped in blankets in Seunghyun’s arms that night, warming his toes on a stone hot water bottle, and dreamed of the day when he’d become a famous aerialist and could travel in luxury again.

 

* * *

 

In February 1928 a huge parcel arrived for Jiyong with a New York postmark; it was the first mail he’d ever received that wasn’t from Mr. Insull or his sisters. It contained his new bamboo silks, soft and undyed; Yuyan must’ve sent them on, her troupe was touring the big theaters. Jiyong thought they’d be perfect and couldn’t wait to give his bones a rest from the juddering they were getting with his current fabric; only they looked awfully boring.

“What color you think I oughta dye ‘em?” he asked Seunghyun as they sat in front of the oil heater eating cake made by the mother of one of Tabi’s kids.

“I dunno, it depends.” Seunghyun sneezed. “Have you decided on a theme and stuff for your act?”

“Not exactly.” Jiyong knew he had to: Terrell and Timtam and all the others would be back next month and the rehearsals would just fly by.

“You’d better ask Fred when he checks in, then, Ed says he’s gonna be here in a week. Maybe he can give you some ideas.”

 

“Hmm,” said the Equestrian Director once he’d watched Jiyong’s polished routine. “Good question.”

“I’ll order some more when I’ve saved a bit,” Jiyong told him, “but for now I’ve only got the one set so they gotta be right.”

“We have a _budget_ for equipment,” Fred informed him with a smile, like Jiyong was still a First of May. “Once we judge how well you’re doing we can help with that.”

“Thank you, Sir!” He followed the taller man out of the practice barn, through the melting slush and into the stables where Fred began to count the horses. “What color d’you think for now, though?” Fred petted a Clydesdale’s nose while Jiyong tried to stay in the middle of the aisle so he didn’t get bitten – they weren’t any fonder of him than before.

“Well, what do you want for a stage name?”

“…I dunno,” said Jiyong. “But I don’t want my real name anywhere in it!” Fred gave him a knowing look – like Terrell, he must be used to Cirkies acting rather furtive about their identities – then peered at him more thoughtfully.

“You look like a swallow up there, or some other little bird. You could use sky-blue silks and wear some kind of feathery getup.”

“I guess the ‘little’ is accurate,” Jiyong agreed grudgingly – especially when you were staring at him from twenty feet below. “But ‘little bird’…I want ‘em to think I’m beautiful and strong and fierce!” That was how he felt up there: serene but powerful.

“Well…” Fred chuckled. “‘Little Dragon,’ then, and use red silks. Lots of gold on the costume.” Jiyong thought about it, and decided after he’d imagined it on a poster – he could daydream, couldn’t he?

“Okay, put me down as that.” He was already thinking of costumes – he’d have to go charm the Wardrobe girls as soon as possible. Yes, he thought he would make rather a good dragon.

 

* * *

 

“You’re back!” Jiyong swung down off the roof of the train car and greeted Timtam with a wave as he stumped up with his bag.

“So observant,” said his friend in a gravelly tone; he obviously had a hangover, probably drank the whole way up from Florida. “Give us a hand, then.” Jiyong took the bag and slung it into the car, accidentally hitting Sky High, who’d arrived not an hour before.

“Sorry!”

“What’s with this fuckin’ Indiana sun?” groused Timtam with a hand over his eyes. It was barely shining. Jiyong just laughed and boosted him onto the train. It was so nice to have everyone home! “Been keepin’ busy?” inquired the dwarf as soon as he was on his back in his bunk with the makeshift curtain drawn.

“Worked on the ranch,” said Sky High from his lofty height – he was too tall to stand upright in the car. “Had a Christmas.” It occurred once again to Jiyong that compared to his female colleagues male friends didn’t seem to require details, so when Timtam looked at him he kept it short and sweet.

“Practiced a lot, hung out with Seunghyun and the animals. Schlepped out to do the oddity act every weekend.” Timtam raised his eyebrows.

“But you ain’t an oddity now – not officially, anyway.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure not getting paid for being a kinker yet,” retorted Jiyong. “I’m not gunna be choosy, am I.”

“Well,” said Timtam grumpily, “I’ll tell ya one thing: you’re gonna have to move out.”

“But-”

“You’re not with the sideshow, you can’t be in this car.” Timtam and Sky High gazed at him, not unsympathetically. “You know the rules, kid: kinkers with kinkers.” Jiyong felt a pang of mild dismay at the thought of leaving the oddities car; it’d been his home the last two years and, cramped and dingy though it was, he’d grown to _feel_ at home – here, where no-one judged him for what he looked like or the ink on his skin.

“…Then where do I go?” he asked quietly, anxiety gripping his stomach. If rules were rules he wouldn’t be allowed to bunk with Seunghyun and the riggers; what if the other small-time kinkers resented him, or worse, made advances he couldn’t accept? So many people seemed to know he’d been in the cooch show… He thanked God that Gough had his own compartment – he wouldn’t be asked to share with _him_ , at least.

“Go find Paul Harrell,” said Sky High in his kindly voice, referring to the car manager. “I’ll come with you, I gotta talk to him about this mattress anyway.” 

They stepped out into the chaos of arrivals, of Cirkies and agents and exotic animals and general hangers-on. Jiyong felt close to the way he had the very first day: almost bursting with excitement and nervousness combined. He was glad to have the sweet-tempered giant behind him, looking over his head for Paul and guarding him from being bumped. And he couldn’t help wondering: who’d have his back in the brand new world of the Big Top?

 

* * *

 

The 1928 season began and ended almost before Jiyong could blink. His act slotted into the lineup after a bit of rearranging, and in spite of his worries went ahead without any terrible mishaps; the rubes seemed to enjoy it, though not as much as they enjoyed Seunghyun’s fireworks and the Cannonball. Jiyong didn’t move up but he didn’t move _down_ – not that there was much further down to go – and best of all, any remaining weirdness left over from last year between Seunghyun and himself seemed to have melted away with the snow. 

It wasn’t all glitz and glamor, of course. Jiyong was probably the most minor soloist in the Big Top and was treated as such by kinkers and technicians alike. Not all of them, true: Yuyan’s troupe was back and she continued training him; now he could eat with her, too, and she grew ever so slightly warmer towards him. Cliff Aeros couldn’t be bothered with rank, and as he’d often drag Seunghyun over to the performers’ tables Jiyong was blessed with his lover’s company even at mealtimes. But the fact that Jiyong had been a sideshow exhibit and would wear the marks of that profession to the end of his days was certainly a barrier between himself and many of the other kinkers. That was when he missed living with his old friends the most. He sensibly told himself he oughta count himself lucky he had friends at all – it was a luxury he’d never enjoyed at the House – and that they hadn’t cut him off when he’d moved out.

His sideshow and cooch act colleagues had all been surprised at his change of career, but fortunately they didn’t seem to _resent_ it. Flora was sorry to lose him as a double act, and maybe his bunkmates missed him, yet not one of ‘em wore a sour face. Jiyong made sure to keep it that way; he spent time with them whenever he could and felt more comfortable amid their oddity than he did with most of the Big Top stars. He managed to strike a balance between the two that was similar to Timtam’s: not wholly accepted by the kinkers but tolerated in both worlds, the same way he could visit the rigger’s car now on pretense of looking for Ezra when really he was after Seunghyun. Jiyong’s official berth was with the male aerialists; they filled a number of compartments according to their status in the show, and Jiyong wasn’t surprised when the car manager tossed him in with Yuyan’s troupe members. They didn’t seem to care, they spoke Chinese all the time anyway so it wasn’t as if he was cramping their style. But it made him lonely. He resolved that he’d work even harder to get popular and earn a better spot – his dreams when they weren’t about Seunghyun were filled with his own compartment and his own manager. He just wasn’t sure how to make it happen.

In no time at all it was October and they were in Texas. Terrell seemed pleased with the tour and Jiyong had enjoyed it all – minus Chicago, which they’d naturally skipped – but his lack of further progress in terms of his career was grating a little now the general excitement had worn off. He made only slightly more than he had with the sideshow and cooch show combined, and was doing as much cherry pie as he could: filling in for contortionists and members of various troupes during the Spec, even taking a turn on an elephant when one of the riders got food poisoning – the texture of its skin was like nothing he’d ever felt in the world. His diamond collection was growing little by little, but Dami had written him saying their dad was having health problems again and Jiyong was itching to send more money home. At least Soomin and Daesung seemed to be chugging along steadily; he wondered when their friend would pop the question.

With all this going on, by the end he was eager to be distracted. Seunghyun helped, removing the weight of these grown-up problems from his naked shoulders and roping him into serenity in the canvas car – and Jiyong loved it as intensely as ever, hadn’t so much as looked at another man all year. Still, when the latest bit of news got around – from Ed, the source of all gossip – he couldn’t help but be excited. A rumor was circulating that they were getting _Tom Mix_ for the 1929 season, now that they were splitting with the always-aloof Wild West show. Jiyong could hardly credit it: one of the great silent picture cowboys, star of such titles as _3 Jumps Ahead_ and _Mile-A-Minute Romeo_! Jiyong had spent hours in theaters watching him shoot bad guys and get the girl, had read of his antics in the entertainment rags; he was on his fourth wife already. He could understand such a man _maybe_ doing a guest turn in The Big One, but what would Mix want with a lesser outfit like them? And for a whole season! Jiyong didn’t believe it; but he crossed his fingers all the same and looked forward to the next year.

 

* * *

 

1929 started with a bang – _several_ bangs, enough to shake Illinois and the whole of the American crime world. 

Jiyong was so immersed in rehearsing and working the sideshow during the 1928 winter – he’d got in quick this time and nabbed the spot in the local Peru show – that he’d barely spared a thought for the Chicago Outfit, other than the usual resentment that they were the reason he couldn’t go home, and a vague curiosity as to whether Mr. Insull had ever gotten them off his back. But when they went to the cookhouse for lunch on February 16 a discarded newspaper on the table slammed Capone front and center into his thoughts again. Seunghyun snatched at it and shook it out, revealing the headline: ‘ _Killing of 7 Laid to Capone Gang_ ’.

“Jesus Christ,” breathed Jiyong, and grabbed his arm. Who’d been killed?! Was this an escalation of gang warfare or something more _personal_ , was anyone they knew involved or– “Read it out, Tabi,” he begged. Seunghyun did, and little by little Jiyong’s pulse slowed even as his general horror increased. It was a revenge plot, according to the cops: the kind of in-your-face vengeance only Capone would dare carry out. The article said that the Outfit and the North Side Gang had been taking pot shots at each other for three years: attacking Capone’s hotel in Cicero in 1926, followed by his deadly retaliation, and it’d been tit for tat from then on. This was the latest – and by far the most brutal. It’d been a massacre.

“Holy hell,” said Seunghyun, his eyes huge. “The nerve of the man! Says here he got someone to pose as a bootlegger and offer the North Side leader a sweet deal.”

“Bugs Moran?” put in Jiyong, who’d gotten to know these names very well in his final days at the House.

“Yeah, still him. Capone tried for him before but could never get him. So the ‘bootlegger’ tells Moran to meet him at a warehouse on North Clark Street to collect the stuff. But when the Irish guys turned up they found a bunch of cops waiting for them. And here’s the kicker: they _weren’t_ cops, they were Capone’s button-men in disguise, and as soon as the North Siders got their hands up they just…gunned them down. Not a warning, not a word. In broad daylight. That’s what this reporter says, anyway.”

“Oh my God.” Jiyong felt a violent shiver go through him at the forceful reminder of what he and Seunghyun had escaped – and what they might have to look forward to if they went back. “And Moran?” he asked. Seunghyun shook his head.

“He was late for the meeting. The cops reckon he saw it all but obviously he booked it straightaway, and he’s not talking.”

“Lucky!!”

“Maybe luck, maybe not.” Jiyong nodded thoughtfully, glad that the North Side leader had escaped; not ‘cos he personally wished the mobster well but because Moran would be sure to double down on his revenge. And this had been so _public_. He knew Capone’s image to date had been a warped sorta ‘man of the people’, doing charity work and attending baseball games. This, though, this would change everything. Whether it was North Side payback or the Law finally catching up to him, it couldn’t be too long before Capone was _done_. Could it?

 

* * *

 

In the days that followed it seemed to Jiyong that all anyone wanted to talk about was what had come to be known as the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre[22]. Jiyong certainly didn’t want to discuss it; not with outsiders, anyway. But he couldn’t get away from it and he found himself growing furtive and twitchy around the other Cirkies, especially Ed, who loved sensationalist chat above all things.

More information trickled out with every morning paper: the other big Mob bosses were up in arms over Capone’s recklessness and had called him to New York for a meeting; Jiyong doubted that’d have much effect. The guys dressed as cops had been Italian assassins hired by Capone and had vanished as soon as it was done. Except for one. Jiyong rested his forehead in his hands, his temples thrumming with pain as Ed revealed the latest news: according to ballistics evidence the authorities were almost certain one of the men had been Jack McGurn.

“Did they arrest him?!” demanded Seunghyun, too eagerly.

“Naw,” said Ed in his horrible voice. He scanned the latest article. “Not yet anyway. But does say it was natural he be involved: he got peppered with tommy-gun fire by Moran’s guys last year. Survived, but I guess he’s got a grudge to bear.” Jiyong winced, only too aware of what McGurn was capable of when he was crossed.

“Ironic,” said Seunghyun darkly. “Machine Gun Jack almost taken down like that. If only they’d aimed better!” Ed gave him an odd look.

“Oh, right,” he said, his face clearing. “You two are Chicagoans, huh? Bet those guys can really tear it up.”

“You might say that!”

“Anyway, word’s goin’ around that the whole Massacre was McGurn’s idea in the first place. He’s the one who got Capone on board.” Jiyong wasn’t surprised to hear it.

“Makes sense,” agreed Seunghyun. “If it’d been Capone doing the directing Moran wouldn’t have got away. _Fucking moron_ ,” he added under his breath.

“I s’pose you know better than me,” croaked Ed mildly. Seunghyun quickly got his vindictiveness in check.

“Not really.” He smiled, and probably only Jiyong read it as a grimace. The younger man took his hand under the table; he saw that his lover didn’t exactly look _afraid_ so much as deeply, deeply sad.

 

* * *

 

“We’ll never go home,” said Seunghyun hopelessly that afternoon by the river. It had turned sunny and his mood made a depressing contrast with the weather. Jiyong nuzzled closer under the blanket and peered up at him in concern; Seunghyun was still watching the elephants take their bath but the charming sight wasn’t doing much to cheer him up.

“What d’you mean?” Jiyong asked, taking his bottle away after a swig for himself: being maudlin made Seunghyun drink.

“Capone will _never_ get caught.” The older man pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. “They released him after hardly any time, they couldn’t even hold on to McGurn! And he’s _still alive_. He’s like a goddamn cat. As long as the leader’s around the Outfit holds, and while it does we can’t risk going back.”

“It won’t be forever,” Jiyong consoled him. He knew Seunghyun was missing his parents something terrible, but the smaller man had never lost faith that they’d get back to Chicago _sometime_. Seunghyun was too prone to melancholy – it wasn’t his fault, though: like Jiyong’s much-contested sexual leanings it was a product of both his hard life and inner nature. Jiyong began to pet his hair and tried to think of something comforting to say.

“Won’t it?” retorted Seunghyun. “It’s been _three years_. What must my mom and dad think of me? You know she asked me for a visit at Christmas… Even from Korea, a decent son would’ve come.”

“I know, baby; it’s longer than we thought.” Jiyong stroked his ear with cold fingers and pulled him over to lie with his head pillowed on the smaller man’s chest. “You know I’ll always be your family,” he murmured. He hoped Seunghyun wouldn’t think that a runner-up prize.

“…I love you.” Seunghyun leaned on him heavily, sounding just a bit less desolate. “That’s the one thing that keeps me going.”

“And I’ll find you a way to see home again – maybe not soon, but as soon as I can.” Jiyong knew his own desire to see his family was strong; but it was more _manageable_ ‘cos he was used to it. And apart from the people he loved there, he didn’t know how much Chicago was ‘home’ anymore: the House and now the train were more vivid in his memory than his life with his parents and sisters. That was sad, he thought, but there was nothing he could do about it, and with Seunghyun so fragile about the whole thing Jiyong _had_ to stay positive. He ruffled the older man’s hair and saw Seunghyun crack a smile.

“Oh, look!” said Jiyong a few minutes later. Seunghyun sat bolt upright as one of the elephants made a break for it and crashed outta the river into the countryside in the direction of town.

“Again,” complained Seunghyun, but Jiyong could tell he was about to laugh; he was glad of that. “Third time this winter.” Jiyong clambered to his feet and helped his lover up.

“C’mon, we better join in before it gets in someone’s flowerbed again.” He clutched the blanket around his neck like a hero’s cape. Seunghyun nodded and flashed him another smile; still holding hands they began to run.

 

* * *

 

March rolled around and of course Jiyong hadn’t found any practical way to grant Seunghyun’s wish; then again, he hadn’t expected to, so he cheered him up and helped him forget the Outfit the best way he knew how: sex and affection. It was working pretty well ‘til the end of the month, when the Circus reassembled for pre-season practice and the train was full again. The Big Top and sideshow and all the other tents were erected and the citizens of Peru were invited to watch rehearsals and give their somewhat expert opinion: they’d had circuses wintering here since the last century. 

Jiyong was waiting impatiently for their new top star to arrive – Ed hadn’t been making it up, he’d been gobsmacked when he found out, they really _were_ getting Tom Mix! He couldn’t imagine how much the Corporation was paying him; thousands, according to Timtam. But roll-out day approached and still the silver-screen cowboy hadn’t shown up. Maybe he was snooty like the Buffalo Bill guys and didn’t want anything to do with Cirkies; maybe he had his own private train and a whole entourage. Jiyong was both disappointed and intrigued, and then of course Timtam ragged him about his movie ‘crush’ ‘til the younger man hurled a jar of cold-cream at his head.

Jiyong headed out to rehearse very early the day before the grand practice. Seunghyun was still asleep in the canvas car but he was feeling antsy, so he shaved and grabbed a cup of coffee from a drowsy cookhouse boy then made for the newly-erected Big Top in the predawn mist. The tent was chilly; of course Ezra wasn’t awake yet so Jiyong scrambled up a ladder and along a high-wire to his lowest-hanging silk and took to the air. He rolled and contorted and posed, alone in the vast space, forgetting every weight on him in the focus of his performance. He didn’t try anything new ‘cos he wasn’t using safety gear, but the familiar moves were enough to let him breathe free. 

He’d been up there around fifteen minutes when he felt someone watching him – he could always tell. He set the silks into a slow horizontal spin and cast his eyes around the empty Hippodrome: at the entrance to Clown Alley was a small figure on a horse. Jiyong squinted at it, and if his legs hadn’t been wrapped in fabric he might’ve fallen right off the silk, he was suddenly so excited – he’d seen that outline in a dozen motion pictures! It was their new top-billed act, here at last. As Jiyong stared, the ‘King of the Cowboys’ set his gorgeous chestnut horse moving and started around the Hippodrome. His outfit must’ve arrived late last night, thought Jiyong, or there would’ve been more fuss: half the kinkers would be looking for his autograph once they found out. And here was Jiyong getting a private preview!

Tom Mix finished his warmup and began to run through what the younger man presumed would be part of his act; and the things he and that horse could do were just unbelievable. Jiyong hung there, routine forgotten, and watched him with a sensation of mixed envy and sheer childish enjoyment. It was different from the bareback acrobats or even the liberty horses: the relationship between this man and this animal was so clear, and their intimacy showed in the level of their tricks. Jiyong couldn’t imagine how spectacular the act would be once Tom had all his props and assistants set up.

At last the two came to a halt; the horse was breathing hard, and Tom let go the reins to let him relax in the middle of the ring with a fond pat to his neck. Jiyong twisted more securely into the silk so he could let go his hands and give them both a round of applause. The actor tipped his head back, met his eye, then sketched a bow. Jiyong clutched at his fabric and suppressed a fannish squeal because he was a _professional_ , dammit.

“Hello, sweetheart,” said the cowboy, like that was what you called everybody in Hollywood. “How’s it hangin’ up there?” Jiyong smiled and let go again to give him a shy wave. “Like the act?” Tom asked; he had a rough voice as if his throat had been damaged at some point, but he sure had the looks of a silent movie actor: probably in his forties and still handsome, dark eyes and dark hair, a bit of stubble this early in the morning. Jiyong nodded. “C’mon down here.” Starstruck, Jiyong unraveled and lowered himself ‘til he could drop lightly to the sawdust. “What, you shy?”

“I better stay over here,” he called, admiring the horse’s gleaming mane and his four neat white socks from a distance. “Horses don’t like me.” One corner of Tom’s mouth curled up.

“You didn’t see my movies?” He gestured proudly at his mount. “This here’s a _Wonder_ Horse. Come say hi.” Jiyong circled round so the horse could see him coming, and with some wariness approached. He held his hand out flat; the beautiful animal snuffed at it with his velvet nose and didn’t look impressed, but he didn’t look pissed either.

“Wow!” said Jiyong in a low voice.

“You ever ride one?” He shook his head.

“I rode an elephant though.” Tom laughed a real gravelly laugh and gave the horse a firm smack on the backside.

“Hop on. Don’t worry, he ain’t gonna do nothin’.” Hardly able to believe his luck, Jiyong took hold of the back of the saddle and easily sprang on behind. He held his breath: the horse shifted a bit, ears flicking back at whatever it was that made Jiyong so spooky to the species, but the cowboy made a soft hissing noise and he settled. Jiyong closed his eyes. He could feel the horse’s flanks moving as he breathed, his bright coat warm and sleek and that lovely equine smell surrounding him. “Meet Tony,” he heard Tom say. “I use five ‘wonder horses’ in the act but this boy’s the one and only original[23]. Gettin’ on a little in years now, but he’s still the best.”

“Hi Tony,” said Jiyong, opening his eyes. The horse twisted his head round at the sound of his voice and Jiyong found himself grinning like an idiot. “Oh gosh, I always wanted to do this!”

“City boy, I’m guessin’?” He nodded. “Didn’t see you on any of the fliers they sent.”

“I’m not a major act,” Jiyong admitted, tentative in case it made the new headliner lose interest in talking to him. But Tom’s expression didn’t change.

“Too bad; that fabric thing’s real pretty, looks like dancin’. Impressive acrobatics, too.”

“Thank you!” Jiyong repressed another urge to gush at him like a teenage girl.

“Wanna show me around?” asked the older man. “Was dark when we got here and I couldn’t see the setup.” Jiyong nodded, grateful to his own stupid brain for waking him so early. “Hang on, then.” Tom picked up the reins in one hand, made another noise at Tony, and they were moving; Jiyong grabbed the saddle and held on.

They did a circuit of the Hippodrome and in the blink of an eye shot out onto the Midway, deserted now ‘til the concession owners turned up to catch the train. Jiyong felt the wind and the light of the rising sun hit his face, and laughed aloud: it felt faster than a sports car, smoother than an elephant and absolutely _perfect_ because he didn’t have to be in charge – he could entrust himself to this man’s capable hands. Tom slowed the horse to a controlled canter and they did a round of the quarters, up to the train with its endless line of cars, along past the cookhouse and menagerie and sideshow tent, back around the Big Top and finally into the back yard. Jiyong pointed out the highlights as they went, now clinging to the tail of Tom’s shirt and shouting in his ear. The Circus was waking up, and people stared at them as they emerged from their train cars and barracks. Jiyong spotted Seunghyun yawning and heading for the cookhouse; he waved and blew him a kiss as they swung past, and his look of astonishment was a picture.

“Where can I let you off, sweetheart?” asked Tom at last; he reined in Tony to a trot. “I gotta feed this boy and get back for breakfast or the wife’ll kill me.”

“Oh, anywhere!” said Jiyong. The cowboy took back him up to the cookhouse and let him off. “Thanks so much, Mr. Mix,” he said giddily. “You can’t think what that meant to me!”

“Tom,” the older man told him, and Jiyong nodded, aching all the way down his legs from Tony’s broad back and out of breath with excitement.

“Jiyong,” he introduced himself. Tom tipped the brim of an invisible hat at him.

“Pleasure, son. Always good to meet a real movie fan – you come around anytime you wanna give me a hand brushin’ him or whatever.” Jiyong nodded eagerly. “See you at the dress rehearsal, then,” Tom said. “Lookin’ forward to your act!” He clicked his tongue and Tony loped off towards the train. Once they were gone Jiyong allowed himself a little squeal – just the one.

 

“I see the new act arrived,” said Seunghyun after breakfast, back at the car – they moved their blankets out every morning in case any canvasmen came looking for something, but it was more a habit now than anything else: their Circus castes had begun to overlap since Jiyong joined the Big Top, and most likely their relationship would no longer cause much scandal even during the season.

“Yeah, I woke up early and saw him rehearsing! How lucky am I, to get a ride!”

“Rather you than me.” Seunghyun liked to keep his feet firmly on the ground.

“He’s _so_ beautiful.” The bigger man looked at him sharply. “The horse!” Jiyong clarified, and Seunghyun huffed through his nose. “But Tom’s real friendly too.”

“Tom?”

“He said to call him that.” Jiyong was having trouble tamping down his grin; he didn’t tell Seunghyun he was this close to buying an autograph book just to have the actor sign it. Apparently he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding his glee.

“You know what happened the last time you got all giddy over one of those handsome smirking stars,” said Seunghyun tightly, grabbing his rolled blanket. Jiyong smiled at him, the genuine smile to let him know he had nothing to worry about.

“This is way different, Tabi. Tom Mix is a real movie star! Timtam says they’re paying him ten grand a week!!” Seunghyun just muttered something about that making it worse. “He’s _nice_. And he said he liked my act; he could do things for me.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“I’ll be careful,” Jiyong assured him. Seunghyun didn’t quite look jealous yet, just worried. The smaller man stretched up and kissed him, a long, luxurious kiss. “But you’ll keep an eye on me, right?” Seunghyun dropped the blanket, wrapped both arms around him and buried his face in his neck.

“You can bet on it.”

 

* * *

 

They rejoined the train after Chicago at Kokomo, Indiana. It was conveniently local so they’d simply headed into Peru when the Circus left and let a room from the parents of one of Seunghyun’s students. The Chicago stop was much longer than usual this year, it’d been doing real well there and the Corporation had extended the run. So Jiyong had to endure an entire month of the local sideshow and trying to keep up with his savings; he didn’t get paid for any of the Big Top shows he missed. It was a difficult few weeks, worrying about the money and about Seunghyun, who every April watched Sells-Floto depart for their hometown with more and more envy. Jiyong wanted to join those shows too, of course he did! Chicago was the biggest city on their route and the thought of the excitement, a full house every performance, and now Tom Mix wowing the crowds made him fairly green. 

“I gotta say it,” admitted Timtam when they caught up with him at the beginning of May. “That cowpoke’s got the goods all right.” This was high praise. 

“Do people like him?” Timtam took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette.

“The chippies do: he loves the skirts. Don’t reckon his wife’ll hang around much longer if he keeps it up, mind.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“Hell, everyone’s got stars in their eyes.” The dwarf shrugged. “He’s not much of a one for jawin’ with us lowly folk, but who cares about that? What matters is he doesn’t ride over anyone – literally or the other – and he wants to feature some of the regular kinkers in his act: the acrobats, a few of the clowns, even me and Gregor are gonna get up a bit of business with him. He’s got a sense of humor, I’ll give him that.”

“That’s great!” said Jiyong. He was pleased the cowboy was proving as nice as he’d seemed. It was a real boost to have a headliner include you in their number, though he had little hope of that himself: it was hard for aerial acts to interact with ground-level, and Jiyong was still pretty minor rank-wise. “Maybe you’ll get cast in a movie!” That was every single performer’s dream.

“Naw, he’s out of the game, ain’t he,” Timtam reminded him dolefully. Jiyong nodded: the era of the silent picture was coming to an end; himself, he found the invention of sound completely thrilling. But he’d heard Tom didn’t think much of the talkies. He was of a different generation so had bowed out gracefully, which was the only reason Sells-Floto had got lucky enough to nab him. Jiyong wondered if the man was bewildered by the march of change; if so, he totally understood – he both craved it and feared its consequences every day.

 

* * *

 

If there was one bit of progress Jiyong welcomed with nothing but joy it was the growing closeness between himself and his sisters. Not literally, of course – that still burned him. They couldn’t really call each other, either, ‘cos none of them had a telephone line. But at least they could write. Jiyong tried to as often as Seunghyun wrote to his parents, and loved getting letters back; the Circus received mail kinda haphazardly when it was on the road but it usually got to him in the end. 

The best thing was that, for the first time, he didn’t have to lie about himself. His monthly letters at the House had been full of omissions and vague talk of his health; the rest of it was about motion pictures and fashion, and asking how the family was doing. Now, though, he could really _talk_ to them: about his adventures, his hopes, his setbacks; although he always made them burn the letters after they’d done the rounds, he didn’t want any written evidence of where he was – just in case. He only wished Seunghyun could do the same for _his_ family; these days when the older man corrected Jiyong’s spelling he would return the letters with a wistful expression that made Jiyong wanna cuddle him close ‘til it vanished.

Jiyong knew he was no great shakes at penmanship or literature; still, Soomin and Dami seemed to enjoy his descriptions of new places and the hijinks of the Circus, and they wrote him back about their own lives: his eldest sister had just had a baby boy – Bertie – and Soomin was finishing up at secretarial college. When he read their beautifully handwritten letters Jiyong felt almost near them. And one sunny Saturday afternoon in Toledo, Ohio he found himself closer than ever. He was washing off his makeup after the matinée when a roustabout tapped him smartly on the shoulder.

“These yours?” he inquired brusquely, and jerked his thumb at two figures waiting by the back yard fence. “Said they belong to the kid on the silk.” Jiyong hurriedly scrubbed at his eyes where the soap was dripping into them and squeezed out his flannel. Then he looked, gasped, and rushed toward them.

“Soomin!!” he cried, dragging open the gate and tugging his sister into the enclosed area. Daesung followed, beaming so hard his eyes disappeared. Jiyong threw his arms around her while gaping open-mouthed at the older man before screaming for Seunghyun.

“Hi, Jiyong!” said his sister in a muffled voice once he was done deafening her. He just held her tighter: three years since he’d seen her, and that only for a few minutes before he and Tabi had gone on the run. She was taller, he was sure, she’d be twenty now! He was still hugging her when Seunghyun dashed up from the distant train, alerted by word of mouth.

“Jesus!” Seunghyun exclaimed, real eloquent. Daesung laughed and got his own hug at last. “What’re _you_ doing here?!”

“Charming as always,” said Daesung. “I’m escorting Claire, obviously.” Jiyong let go his sister at last, got a proper look at her grown-up face. She had a glint in her eye that was very familiar – Seunghyun had always said she looked like him, and now Jiyong could see it too. God, that made him feel old!

“What _are_ you doing, though?” he asked, still astonished. “How didja get all the way to Ohio?!”

“Same way as you, the train.” Soomin grinned at him and retreated to take Daesung’s arm. “And why d’you think we came? To see the Circus!”

“But…but…” Jiyong was too happy to make sense.

“Do your parents know?” Seunghyun demanded, suddenly sounding like a teacher. Daesung went sorta red around the ears but Soomin looked unrepentant.

“No. I said I’m spending the weekend with Ella and the baby.” So both sisters were in on it! Jiyong couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re very naughty,” he chided her.

“That’s rich coming from you!” Now it was Jiyong’s turn to blush; he didn’t quite know which part of his life Soomin was referring to, but her companion sure looked embarrassed. Seunghyun had never been sure if Jiyong’s younger sister knew what the House really was or what he did in it. Now it seemed she had a pretty good idea. “Come on, don’t be mad,” said Soomin, and held out her hand. “I just wanted to see you!”

“She wouldn’t take no for an answer,” admitted Daesung with a glance at his sweetheart, his face now glowing with a fondness that made Jiyong feel warm all over. “So here we are!” Soomin beamed and took her young lecturer’s arm; Daesung’s eyes all but vanished.

“I hope you’re not thinking of sleeping in the same room tonight!” Jiyong heard Seunghyun mutter in Daesung’s ear. He found it quite adorable when his Tabi was being a prude, and in this particular case he happened to agree with him.

“Of course not!!” Daesung whispered back, sounding scandalized. They were not a subtle pair: Soomin rolled her eyes at Jiyong – she’d obviously heard every word.

“Guess you’ll have to marry me!” she quipped, squeezing Daesung’s arm. Jiyong saw Seunghyun’s face go poker-straight, his gaze darting anxiously to her brother. But Daesung was looking at Soomin like she was a cocktail and a fast car and a best friend rolled into one, like he’d never seen anything that remotely matched up to her glory. How could Jiyong do anything but hug the pair of them and hope fervently that they _would_ tie the knot? 

“Slow down,” was all he advised, holding both their hands. “If my dad likes you, you oughta do it the old-fashioned way: get your finances down on paper, then go ask his permission.” Soomin wrinkled her nose at such a notion. Jiyong smiled: there was so much of himself in her, yet he’d missed the most formative years of her life – would he ever have a chance to really know her? “I know, I know,” he continued. “…But you don’t wanna risk falling out with him.” For a moment his throat tightened. “Believe me.” 

Soomin’s fizzy-pop aura went flat at that – she knew the cost of crossing their father too well. Jiyong hitched his smile up again, determined to reassure her. Just then he felt Seunghyun’s hand slip into his with a squeeze of support and approval, which gave him that toasty sensation all over again. He knew that when it came to his family Seunghyun would have his back no matter what, regardless of their past difficulties and his current worry about his own parents. It was a sweet feeling. 

Soomin was back chatting a mile a minute with Daesung; it made him so happy to see, and it was hard at this moment to think of anything that could best it. The only greater pleasure he could wish for would be for Seunghyun to maybe look at _him_ like that someday: pure and bright, not an ounce of trouble in his gaze. That was dumb, Jiyong scolded himself – since their first meeting Seunghyun had looked at him with worship and desire, friendship and doubt and exasperation; and always with love. But they’d never been _simple_ , not even at the start, and Jiyong had certainly done nothing to make it less complicated. He wrapped an arm around Seunghyun’s waist and led the party away to the cookhouse, reminding himself that they were a thoroughly messed-up pair – and that he could happily live with it the rest of his life.

 

* * *

 

Soomin’s visit was over too soon: a Big Top show that absolutely wowed her, some drinks at the one hotel in town that’d admit non-whites as guests. Then Seunghyun took Jiyong to pointedly show Daesung and Soomin to their separate rooms, and that was it. He wondered when he’d be able to see her again – and Dami and his mother and… Anyway. He hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble; if their father found out she’d spent the night away from home there was no telling what he’d do, even though Daesung was a respectable young man with honorable intentions and so on and so on. Soomin didn’t seem frightened, though. Maybe she was as stupidly fearless as Jiyong himself, or perhaps…perhaps their dad had changed. He quickly told himself not to entertain any hopes of that kind. Instead he and Seunghyun boarded the train and resumed their usual routines, enlivened only by the buzz of having a new star.

Tom Mix was the latest hot property, the guy everyone wanted to be around: more famous and less eccentric than Cliff Aeros, Tom had knocked him off the top spot without even noticing – and the German didn’t care. It was the first time Jiyong had ever experienced the aura of true stardom, and he had to admit he liked how it felt. Maybe ‘cos Jiyong had been the first Cirkie Tom met, the cowboy continued being nice to him – nothing that oughta give Seunghyun the least bit of worry, of course. Tom didn’t exactly seek him out, but if he saw the younger man around the lot he’d invite him to the stables and let him groom Tonys One through Five. The horses all more or less put up with him, and Tony No.1 maybe even got to kinda like him ‘cos Jiyong always kept his pockets optimistically stuffed with apples. Occasionally Tom would scoop him up while exercising one of the horses and teach him to ride.

Jiyong knew the other equestrians weren’t too jazzed about having him in the stable – the liberty horses and bareback ponies still put their ears back at him and would bite him if they could. But Tom didn’t care, and Jiyong soon found that counted for a very great deal. The movie star acted totally ignorant of the Circus hierarchy and was famous enough that no-one dared correct him. So regardless of his usual worries Jiyong spent a happy few months on the road that spring. The only annoyance was his lack of promotion.

Jiyong wanted a better time slot, a better position – not the Center Ring, of course, but at least Ring One – and he wanted his own manager. It wasn’t so much the idea of a pay rise, although that’d certainly be nice; it was the old craving: admiration and attention. _Success_. He dreamed of these things and thought he worked hard enough that he deserved at least one of ‘em: his act was novel and dramatic and he improved it all the time, so why wouldn’t Fred or Terrell reward him? Jiyong didn’t think either of the men was prejudiced against his skin; perhaps it was the sideshow thing.

“It’s not,” Terrell told him irritably when Jiyong managed to catch him in a spare moment. “I’m not promoting anyone this season, not unless they do something pretty damn impressive. You think we’re made of money?” Jiyong thought he looked rather flustered.

“Is the Circus in trouble?” he asked before he could stop himself. The manager glowered at him and puffed tobacco in his face.

“No, not that it’s any of your business. But…well, you might as well know, everyone will soon: the Corporation’s being bought out.” Jiyong raised his eyebrows. “It’s going to have a new owner,” Terrell explained. “And I’m not keen to increase the Sells-Floto expenses until I find out how much cash he has left over once he’s paid for us!”

“Wow,” said Jiyong, with a small inward tremor because a new owner could mean upheaval which could mean lost jobs and… “Who is it?”

“John Ringling.” Terrell looked proud but also vaguely worried.

“Oohhh!” Jiyong thought that was quite exciting: the last living sibling of the famous Ringling Brothers circus. He couldn’t wait to tell Ed!

“Don’t get all flighty.” The big man stubbed his cigar out. “He only did it to spite another bigwig[24]. And I doubt you’ll be meeting him anyway. Now run along, won’t you? And just be happy you’ve _got_ a job.”

 

* * *

 

“Tabi, what do _you_ think?” asked Jiyong later that night. They were in with the elephants again, in a small bunk meant for the bullhands at the end of the car. He looked down at his lover and pouted. “Don’t I deserve a better spot?”

“I think you’re a narcissist,” said Seunghyun with a smile, his pupils warm and fuzzy with desire. “You vain creature, you’re not interested in the status, you just want people’s eyes on you. You oughta be more concerned about this new owner.”

“Oh, you don’t think I’m worth being looked at?” Jiyong shifted back in Seunghyun’s lap, displaying the full glory of his naked body to the older man. Seunghyun’s hands trailed reverently along his hips and Jiyong felt his cock twitch beneath him; he smiled and Seunghyun inhaled sharply. Jiyong loved seeing him like this, as if his personal charms made his Tabi totally helpless. They didn’t have to play the domination game all the time: sometimes a simple complaining session followed by a nice gentle fuck would relieve Jiyong’s frustrations perfectly.

“You’re worth it,” Seunghyun assured him. He bent his handsome head and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Jiyong’s collar-bone, a hint of teeth to make the smaller man gasp. “So long as I’m the only one who can look at you like _this_.”

“…Yes, baby!” breathed Jiyong, tugging Seunghyun’s head closer to feel the heat of his lips. So what if he sometimes missed the titillation of the multiple gazes from the cooch show crowd? This was so much more important, he knew that now. He got a grip on Seunghyun’s hair and pulled to tilt his face up enough to be kissed; there was never anything quite like kissing this man, nothing that prompted his affection while at the same time arousing him this way – the adoring brush of Seunghyun’s tongue made Jiyong want to melt and rut against him all at once. He compromised and rocked closer in his lap, grinning into the kiss as the bigger man’s erection slid between his buttocks. Seunghyun groaned.

“You gonna be a tease now…?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” said Jiyong against his lips, and smoothed both hands down his torso to touch himself. Seunghyun growled in his deepest voice and batted his fingers away to take his cock in hand. The smaller man knew Seunghyun loved the noises he made, so didn’t hold back – his lover was pushing up against him, trying to get some attention for himself, and if they went on at this rate Seunghyun might come from the frottage alone. “Wait…!” gasped Jiyong, and climbed outta his lap to slide down his body: he loved to suck Seunghyun off to completion! Anyhow, it wouldn’t do to let his legendary skills stagnate. The older man guided him down eagerly: Tabi’s hands literally _trembled_ when Jiyong did this, it was the most flattering reaction. Jiyong licked his lips then took him deep into his mouth.

“Mmph?” Jiyong let out a muffled moan of inquiry as Seunghyun suddenly jumped. A second later something tapped the younger man on the head and began roaming across his hair, snuffling. He started laughing, couldn’t help it, and had to let Seunghyun slip from between his lips before he choked.

“Tillie, _quit it_!!” Seunghyun protested, smacking without effect at the female bull’s trunk as it rootled over the top of the partition separating the elephants from the sleeping area. It never worked with her: Tillie was the most adventurous of the bunch and escaped at least once a season – a puny human wasn’t about to stop her investigating the unusual sounds coming from next door. Jiyong let go, sat back on his butt and laughed and laughed. Seunghyun growled in frustration, then joined him. The younger man stroked Tillie’s trunk fondly while she explored Seunghyun’s ear. Oh, he really did worry about life too much – his career, the money, and everything – and went to such elaborate lengths to lighten the load! But sometimes the old saying was true: the simplest things could honestly make you the happiest.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre is probably the most infamous thing Capone ever did. Jack McGurn was there and was almost certainly involved in its planning. It’s been recreated in many films and TV shows, and was fictionalised in the brilliant comedy _Some Like It Hot_ (1959) as the reason Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon are forced to join a female jazz band and escape Chicago in drag :)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 23Tom Mix was Hollywood’s first true Western star, the precursor to John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, etc. He starred in 291 films (!) and helped define the genre, always playing the good guy in a cleaned-up fantasy version of the Old West. With his horse Tony, who was equally a star (Tony No.1 got thousands of fan letters), he paved the way for the later ‘singing cowboys’ and celebrity horses like Roy Rogers and Trigger. He was a real action hero: jumping out of planes, into rivers, off cliffs, and of course stunt riding, but what he really loved was circuses. He was with Sells-Floto for three years after going on hiatus from the movies. On YouTube you can find a short documentary called _‘Tom Mix: The Myth On Horseback’_ , which has footage from his films as well as some of the Sells-Floto Circus. Also he was **[handsome](https://i.imgur.com/dXu5BO1.jpg)** :)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 24John Ringling bought the Circus Corporation (made up of four major circuses, including Sells-Floto) pretty much out of pique: his own Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus always performed at Madison Square Garden, but he’d been asked to cancel some Friday night shows so the Garden could hold their hugely popular boxing matches. He said no, so the Circus Corporation agreed to do it instead and basically gave him the finger. So he bought them: it was either that or lose face and a bunch of profits. But, as we’ll see later, it might have turned out to be one of the rashest purchases he ever made… (PBS (2018). _The American Experience: The Circus_.)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> The title song for this chapter is _'The Murder Ballad'_ performed by Jelly Roll Morton in 1938. 'Murder ballads' are also a genre of folk song dealing with crime/murders dating from the 18th century until today, and include modern classics like 'Mack the Knife' and 'Smooth Criminal'. Yay, Jiyong finally found a horse who can tolerate him! You can bet I'm gonna be drawing so many Ji/Tony pics from now on XD


	11. I Hitched My Wagon To A Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong gets a boost that sees his career rise, while America at large goes abruptly downhill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's still the 18th, so: Happy Birthday Jiyong!! Have a happy(ish) chapter :)

Jiyong figured he should maybe thank Tillie the elephant for breaking him out of his funk and his worry about promotion, ‘cos the very next week his luck turned around. 

“You got a minute, sweetheart?” Tom asked him Sunday morning, calling down from the bare back of what looked like Tony No.3. Jiyong was sitting outside the menagerie drinking lemonade with Flora on one side and Seunghyun on the other. He immediately felt his lover start sulking – Seunghyun hated that ‘sweetheart’. He nodded anyway and hopped to his feet. Tony mooched off in the direction of the Big Top and Jiyong followed, trotting at Tom’s heel. “You know I been doin’ the comedy act with those little pals of yours,” said the cowboy as they ducked into the tent out of the hot sunshine. Jiyong smiled: he’d snuck into Clown Alley to watch Timtam and his colleague do a slapstick ‘highwayman’ routine, in which they tried and failed to hold up Tony No.4 in various ineffective ways. It was everso funny even if Timtam _had_ been knocked almost unconscious by a hoof one matinée.

“I think it’s great,” he told Tom honestly.

“Then how’d you like to partner up with me in the end-of-show concert?” The younger man stopped dead. Tom noticed after a second that he’d stumped him, and walked his horse backward to peer down at him. “You okay, kid?”

“…I’d like it more than anything!” said Jiyong in a low voice. Tom smiled that idol smile – it was like a dream, thought Jiyong. He couldn’t imagine what Tom wanted to do with him. He hurried to catch up as Tony got bored and paced on.

“Yeah, somethin’ different, artsy kinda bit: kinda stuff the ladies like.” The cowboy dropped him a wink. “You might haveta learn a couple new skills first, though.”

“I’ll do anything,” Jiyong announced vehemently, because this could be it, this could be what pushed him to the next level!

“I was thinkin’ Ring One,” mused Tom, raising Jiyong’s hopes still higher. “Can’t use the Center ‘cos I got somethin’ else set up, but that oughta give the folks a good enough view, ya think?” Jiyong nodded giddily. Tom stopped under Jiyong’s silks and patted Tony’s backside. “Take your shoes and socks off and jump up here, willya?” Puzzled, the smaller man obeyed him. “Now stand on his ass.” Jiyong gave the horse a dubious look but he just stood there like there wasn’t an extra monkey on his back, so very gingerly Jiyong got to his feet; there was much less room than there’d been on the elephant and Tony’s coat was sleek.

“He’s kinda slippery,” he informed Tom. 

“We can fix that later. Can ya reach your ribbons from there?” Jiyong stood on tiptoe and found that, as Ezra had left them hanging low, he could. As soon as he’d signaled that he had them Tony moved out from under his feet, leaving him hanging there to canter sedately around the edge of the ring. Not having a saddle seemed to make no difference at all to Tom, thought Jiyong as he hand-over-handed it higher. “Now then, show us a bit of that elegant business of yours,” Tom instructed him as he nudged Tony sideways in a dressage prance across the sawdust beneath him. Jiyong complied, too nervous to know what he was doing. “And now come down the bottom again!” shouted the older man. “Hang by your arms, yeah, pretty like that!” 

“…How long?” asked Jiyong, wondering if he oughta do a wrist-lock to stop his hands getting tired. 

“Just hold on!” Tony glided back across the ring, and Jiyong was startled to find his left ankle caught in Tom’s strong grip. He clung on for dear life as the silks were pulled outward from their vertical position and he was tugged around the ring like a dog running circles round its owner. He did his best to form an elegant attitude with his back and his other leg but it was pretty tough when his arms were screaming at him to let go! 

“Oww!” he informed Tom after a couple of circuits, hoping the stunt rider would let up. Tom decreased the size of the circle, his arm now locked securely around Jiyong’s thigh; he didn’t need his hands to control his mount.

“Okay, try this! When I count to three I want ya to let go and propel forward, then land with both feet on his back. Ready? One-”

“No!!”

“-Two, three,” said Tom merrily, and tugged at Jiyong’s leg while he temporarily checked Tony’s forward motion. Jiyong’s arms were aching so much he had no choice but to let go: he was certain he was about to fly right over the horse and rider, he was going so fast; but the cowboy held his thigh steady and then somehow he was standing on Tony’s haunches, the muscles moving under his feet and Tom’s shoulders strong beneath his hands. He was so surprised he immediately fell off.

“Well…ya take a tumble pretty good, at least,” Tom said as Jiyong spat out a mouthful of bark chips. “Everythin’ in one piece?” Jiyong staggered upright.

“Yes…”

“Hop back up, then. We better practice some bareback moves before we get those ribbons involved again.” Tom offered his hand and the younger man took it, almost wishing this superstar had never noticed him in the first place.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong took back his wish one month later in Fort Dodge, Iowa, when he was presented in his first featured turn as one of the titular characters in Tom’s Wild West take on St. George and the Dragon. He had a special hammock-shaped ‘U’ of silk hanging from the Ring One Top, which was easier to swing from as he mounted and dismounted Tony No.3 and to cling on to as he was pulled round the ring by various appendages. Ezra helped by lowering and raising him at strategic moments, but even so it was a challenge. Bareback riding was one of the few things he’d ever done that’d genuinely scared him, but Tom didn’t let him have time to _be_ frightened, and after a few weeks of severe bruising Jiyong’s natural balance and suppleness had him doing handstands and all manner of tricks on the horse’s broad back. Tony No.3 was the best for bareback riding out of all five, Tom had assured him, and after a while he agreed: it was odd to say a horse’s butt was trustworthy, but Tony never shied or stumbled – any tumbles Jiyong took were thanks to his own miscalculations.

The Equestrian Director liked it a good deal. Terrell just sighed, but wrote a check for new equipment and told Jiyong as before that he could try it _once_. After the first night he kept quiet and let them do as they pleased. Seunghyun… Well, Seunghyun just put up with it, as he did so many other of Jiyong’s whims. Jiyong knew his lover was torn between being pleased at the opportunity he’d been given – an aftershow spot with the _headliner_ in addition to his usual act – and vaguely suspicious of Tom Mix and his outdoorsy good looks. The younger man reassured Seunghyun over and over that there was nothing to worry about, and this time he meant it; but Jiyong had to admit that his own past behavior made his Tabi’s sulking kinda understandable.

Most importantly, the rubes loved it. Not just the ladies: everyone.

“We oughta celebrate!” Tom said warmly after he’d closed out the evening show. Jiyong was helping him and the trainer put the horses to bed – it was Saturday night so they were enjoying a sleep on solid ground. “You didn’t fall off.”

“A victory!” agreed Jiyong, grinning at him.

“Got booze? I’ll grab the wife. Round up your buddies, let’s make it a party.” Jiyong nodded; Tom still hadn’t cottoned on to the fact that Seunghyun was liquor supplier for half the train. “Your place or mine?” asked the cowboy. 

“I don’t have a place,” said Jiyong with a laugh.

“No?!” Tom quit scratching Tony No.1’s tail and turned to stare at him. “How long you been with this outfit?”

“Three years.” Jiyong couldn’t help sounding rueful.

“Really!” Of course this Hollywood star couldn’t imagine such a thing. The smaller man just shrugged. “Then y’all come to mine for now, it won’t kill her to wash a few glasses.” Tom clapped his new colleague on the back and ushered him out of the stable tent. “We’ll see about that other tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

The very next day Tom – an early riser – summoned Jiyong from the Chinese troupe’s car with a thunderous banging on the metal door before knocking up Terrell’s private quarters with similar force. The Sells-Floto manager was _not_ a morning person, as Jiyong knew very well. But when he saw his Korean troublemaker had their ten-thousand-dollar movie star in tow he at least attempted to act polite.

“…More show ideas?” said Terrell, groping for the coffee Jiyong had diplomatically brought from the cookhouse.

“Naw, this is a domestic issue,” Tom informed him. “About livin’ arrangements.” Jiyong kept his lip firmly zipped but was given a deeply disapproving stare all the same.

“…You want to live with _him_?” Terrell rubbed at his ample stomach like the idea was giving him indigestion. He glared harder at Jiyong, who could guess exactly what he was thinking: that his ex-cooch act had gone and seduced yet another man. It was really too bad, thought Jiyong wryly: three years on from the House and everyone _still_ saw him as a floozy.

“I want him to live with who _he_ wants,” the cowboy corrected Terrell, getting nothing but a blank look in return. “He needs his own car.”

“You’ve _got_ to be joking.” Yeah, Terrell was gunna blame all this on Jiyong – he could see it. He attempted to look meek and not like he thought it was about damn time.

“Then part of one at least. All my partners gotta have a compartment,” Tom told the manager in his warm drawl – he didn’t mention Timtam, who’d also worked with him, Jiyong noted: as usual the little people got overlooked. “Ya expect me to team up with the rank and file?” He gave Terrell that million-buck Hollywood smile. Terrell puffed his cigar into ash, but at last rolled his eyes and nodded at Jiyong. 

“Oh, fine, if it’ll please our star we’ll all shuffle up and make room for _you_.” Jiyong beamed at him. “But you’re not getting a raise!” Tom clapped the smaller man on the back and shook Terrell’s grudging hand; and that was how Jiyong and Seunghyun, in August 1929, became the proud inhabitants of one-third of a train car.

 

* * *

 

“Wasn’t this season _amazing_?” Jiyong said to Seunghyun as they waved goodbye to their friends at the winter quarters. He saw Timtam stand up in the bed of the truck and flip him off as it rolled away, but it only made him laugh.

“You don’t have to be smug about it,” said his lover drily. Jiyong beamed and slung an arm round his neck, and after a grudging second the older man reciprocated. “At least your cowherd’s scurried on home.” Seunghyun looked mighty satisfied about that. Jiyong just shrugged: he’d hardly expect a millionaire movie star to stick around in the chill of Peru all winter – of course Tom had lit out for his sunny L.A. ranch, taking his actress wife and all five Tonys with him.

“You could be less of a grouch,” he told Seunghyun in good humor. “Didn’t he get us our own place?”

“The sink’s busted.” But Seunghyun was smiling as they walked back to their compartment through the mud: he knew damn well it was Tom’s generous whim that’d made the last couple of months so peachy. Admittedly their place wasn’t the Ritz: it was the middle compartment of the car and had no outer door of its own, so you had to go through a bunch of storage to reach it; the sink was indeed cracked and the bed narrow. But Jiyong didn’t care because at long last he could share it with Seunghyun – no more canvas car, no more elephant interruptions. It was someplace they could call home.

They returned to their winter jobs as before, Jiyong fighting the other tattoo acts to grab the local sideshow spot. They started thinking about their performances for next season, secure in the knowledge that their contracts were signed and sealed: Terrell might grumble but he knew a good thing when he saw it. A week passed quietly, the two of them eating, keeping warm and making love. The off season was all set to be as unremarkable as the last one – if something hadn’t happened that would change America completely and forever.

 

* * *

 

It was a Friday late in October and Jiyong was hitching a ride on a grocery truck into town for the evening sideshow; he’d abandoned the sexually ambiguous, androgynous look for these performances – it only ever got him in trouble and he didn’t trust anyone outside the Circus to defend his honor should it be required. He hopped off the truck at the corner of Broadway and Main, and as he did so he noticed the stores were closed already and people were standing in groups on the street, muttering together anxiously and rustling newspapers. Jiyong shrugged: small towns were different from Chicago, maybe everything stopped here when there was some hot local gossip. But when he got to the sideshow building he found the atmosphere kinda odd there, too – to use Seunghyun’s favorite word it was _hinky_. 

“Does something feel off to you?” he asked the guy in the next exhibit: the Hagenback-Wallace giant, not as tall as Sky High but way broader. “What’s going on?”

“Dunno. Something in the paper, but I don’t read too good.” The big man shrugged and got on with his act so Jiyong did the same. He missed having Flora to sing with; he’d learned to sorta play the ukulele instead ‘cos it was the easiest instrument to lug about, so he did a few saucy tunes and watched the gillies’ faces. There was about the same number of visitors as was usual on a Friday. Still, something wasn’t right.

It wasn’t ‘til he joined Seunghyun in their coffee house after his shift that he found out. The older man threw a newspaper down in front of him, and for a second Jiyong wondered with dismay if this was about Capone again – _he_ was notorious enough to get an entire town talking. Seunghyun’s jaw was tight, his eyes concerned. Then Jiyong read the headline: ‘ _Greatest Crash in Wall Street’s History_ ’.

“Bank trouble?” he asked; he was no great whizz at financial stuff but he felt a little relieved: he and Seunghyun kept their wealth around their necks.

“Stock market,” Seunghyun told him, still looking awfully worried. “It looks _bad_.”

“Why, what happened?” Jiyong sipped at his coffee and stole one of his lover’s sandwiches.

“Not sure.” Seunghyun paused, probably trying to find a way to put it that he might understand. “Okay: the last few years share prices have been through the roof – that means the value of each company’s stock has been getting higher and higher. It’s good for businesses, good for anyone who buys shares in them; the economy’s been roaring ever since we left Chicago.”

“But,” prompted Jiyong, already half bored.

“ _But_ today those prices dropped like crazy, which means the companies are suddenly worth much less: maybe last year one share in a sewing-machine company was worth three hundred bucks – today it might only be worth _ten_. As soon as investors started noticing the trend everyone scrambled to sell as soon as possible, ‘cos who wants to own worthless stocks? And it caused a panic.” Seunghyun chewed on his bottom lip. “They’re calling it ‘Black Thursday’.”

“…So,” said Jiyong slowly, trying to make sense of this, “what does it mean for us?”

“I don’t know.” Seunghyun tapped the paper. “This is yesterday’s news. We’ll have to wait for tomorrow’s edition.” He took Jiyong’s hand across the table. “But thank God we’ve been saving.”

 

* * *

 

The winter quarters was full of the news, and although half its inhabitants seemed to understand it as little as Jiyong did the next day everyone who could read raced into town to get their hands on the morning edition. When Ed brought a copy for Seunghyun to translate, the older man let out a reserved sigh.

“Good?” asked Jiyong eagerly.

“Perhaps. The big banks have all got together, they’ve done something to prop up the market, and the Treasury says there’s no fundamental problem – they said stocks couldn’t keep rising forever anyway.”

“So it’s fixed?” rasped Ed. “I got relatives who invest, they can’t afford to lose it!” But all Seunghyun would say was _maybe_.

The Cirkies and townsfolk went about their business for the next few days in a state of what Jiyong could only describe as wobbly optimism. He did his weekend shifts, people still came and gawked at his tattoos, and Black Thursday seemed nothing but a sensational misstep that would affect no-one outside Wall Street. But less than a week later, on October 29, came Black Tuesday – and even Jiyong knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

It was as the papers said – or rather as _Seunghyun_ said they said: the economy had completely croaked. Billions of dollars were lost on the Tuesday alone as stock values dropped to nothing, numbers so vast Jiyong had no way to imagine them in practical terms, which was something he was normally pretty good at. There was nothing the banks could do, said Seunghyun to a worried contingent of Cirkies in the cookhouse – the banks themselves were in danger of folding. Anyone whose money was tied up in investments could be about to lose everything. Anyone who _owned_ a listed company would find it worth less than the goods or services it provided.

“We’re all right, though, aren’t we?” said a juggler hopefully, when Seunghyun finished explaining. “It’s only the rich folks who get involved in that stuff.”

“Speak for yourself!” retorted Ed. “Haven’t you got any family? My brothers put their savings into Ford! The finance guys been tellin’ regular people for years that it’s the smart thing to do…” The juggler opened his mouth, but Seunghyun held up both hands before a fight could break out.

“This isn’t all right for _anyone_ ,” he said loudly. “Yeah, normal people invest, and they’re gonna lose out same as the fat cats. I have no idea if it’s smarter for them to try and sell the stocks for a pittance and get out while they can, or hold on and see if prices start rising again; either way, for the time being that money’s _gone_.” There was an anxious murmur; Jiyong scooted closer to Seunghyun, for moral support if nothing else. “But that could be just the beginning,” the older man went on. “If a business is suddenly worth nothing, how can it pay its workers? And if they take a pay cut or worse get laid off, how can they _buy_ anything? If nobody’s buying, stores can’t order more goods from the manufacturer, and then the manufacturer won’t be able to buy materials or pay its own workers – it’d spread out and out, and what happens to the country then?”

“Thanks for the encouragement!” shouted someone from the back.

“Shut up,” said Seunghyun. “Look, I know most of us keep our savings on us like sensible people.” Nods. “But you know who doesn’t?” Seunghyun’s big eyes turned dark. “The people who own this Circus.” Jiyong sucked in a breath at that, suddenly grasping the import of his lover’s confusing explanation[25]. There was a silence while everyone worked it out.

“…So we’re screwed?” said a voice at last. Seunghyun spread his hands.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I’m not a financier or a fortune-teller. All I can advise is that you cross your goddamn fingers as hard as you can – hell, cross everything! – and wait for the gaffer to come tell us what’s happening.” He sighed. “And for God’s sake look after each other.” He groped for Jiyong’s hand then turned and pushed his way out of the room, leaving a rising babble in his wake.

“I’m proud you told ‘em straight, Tabi,” said Jiyong breathlessly as Seunghyun pulled him along. “Even if they didn’t wanna hear it.” He could see the stress vein at the older man’s temple but he knew this time it wasn’t anger, it was frustration and misery and something like fear. Seunghyun marched on ‘til they emerged from among the buildings into the open country beside the river. Then he stopped and inhaled deeply. “…You okay, baby?” asked Jiyong. Seunghyun turned and took him by both shoulders, his grip fierce.

“I meant it,” said the bigger man, his eyes huge. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, – I only know it’s gonna be bad.” Jiyong looked up at him, fine jaw tight but believing in him completely. “But _I love you_ ,” Seunghyun declared, “and I’m going to look after you. You’ll have everything you want; it might take a little longer, that’s all.” Jiyong slid both arms around his waist, worry gnawing at him but his heart cocooned in the warmth of this incredible man and his dogged determination.

“Course you will, Tabi. And I’m gunna look after _you_.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong had always assumed that the grand affairs of the nation moved at about the same pace as an iceberg; he steeled himself to settle down and wait for the eventual fallout of the Crash. But almost as soon as he braced himself the consequences started coming. The most immediate were the suicides: not only rich investors and bankers who suddenly found themselves poor – the ones whose deaths got covered in every paper – but also small business owners and ordinary workers who’d taken the advice of money men and put their savings into the stock market. It’d been a good idea at the time, said Seunghyun: no-one could say quite why the Crash had happened yet. Still, in the space of a day those people were left with nothing, and for some it was too much to take. Jiyong felt sorry for all the men he read about, but it was a removed kind of pity – it was only brought home to him when the Human Skeleton came to take them to Ed.

“When did it happen?” asked Seunghyun gently. They were in the oddities car, where Ed sat numbly on the edge of his bunk clutching a letter.

“Friday…just three days after.” Ed’s peculiar voice was almost indecipherable, all flat and clogged. Jiyong climbed up behind the man and put both arms around him, rested his cheek on Ed’s sandy Midwestern hair; he didn’t know what else to do. Ed patted his forearm automatically. 

“I’m sorry,” Seunghyun told him. Jiyong could tell he wanted to cry – his Tabi could be sentimental – but how could he when Ed wasn’t?

“He was my youngest brother,” said Ed, still in that dull voice. “He just got married and my next brother lives three States from them. What do I do…?” Jiyong thought of his own sisters, then tried not to: he’d not heard from them since before Black Thursday – he had no idea if Dami’s husband had had investments, or what was happening in Chicago. Briefly he had a mental flash of his other friends, the girls he’d worked with at the House, even Mr. Insull: whatever would happen to _them_?

No-one had an answer to Ed’s question, ‘cos who knew what would be coming next? They simply sat there with him, heads bowed, ‘til he began to cry.

But the aftermath of the Crash was only getting warmed up. The next and more widespread effect was the measures taken by businesses trying desperately to stay afloat. Some people were lucky – when Seunghyun called Daesung he found his academic job was safe, at least for the moment. Others like Dami’s husband took pay cuts, and that scared Jiyong bad: could they afford to raise the baby properly? He’d do anything rather than see his new nephew grow up in the poverty into which he and his sisters had been born. And people took their pay cuts almost _gratefully_ , ‘cos there was a far worse option: losing your job altogether. Jiyong discovered this first-hand just after Christmas, when he arrived at the sideshow for his shift and found he was being let go.

“It’s not as if I wanna,” the proprietor told him as he received his final pay envelope. “But I can’t afford to run this place _and_ the garage, and you know which one customers are gonna keep comin’ to.”

“You think you’ll re-open?” asked Jiyong; he couldn’t get angry, he was too anxious for that.

“Who knows?” His ex-employer shrugged. “World’s goin’ to Hell in a hand-cart.”

“He’s right,” said Seunghyun when his crestfallen lover came to find him and tell him the bad news. “My hours just got cut to two days a week. Who can pay for education when there’s food needs putting on the table?”

“Dammit!” Jiyong kicked the side of the truck and the driver banged on the rear window angrily. “This is the worst goddamn time, I oughta be sending _more_ money home! If my mom loses her job in that fancy Chinese store there’ll be none coming in at all. I wish Daesung would hurry up and pop the question, that’d be one less mouth to feed.”

“Sshhh, darling, I know,” said Seunghyun softly, and laid a calming hand on the nape of his neck beneath the scarf. The younger man took a deep breath.

“Sorry. I should’ve asked about your mom and dad first.”

“You don’t need to worry.” Seunghyun sounded so warm. “My mom’s lost some piano pupils but the rich Asian families seem to have hung on to their fortunes – guess they have most of their money safe abroad. So she still has clients. My dad had a couple of investments but they only fell a bit, he’s too cautious to do any proper speculation; and the school really needs him. They’re gonna be fine, so I can concentrate on helping _you_.” Jiyong leaned into him, grateful yet again for the day he’d escaped the House and gone running drunkenly around Chicago – the day he’d unconsciously worked his spell on Seunghyun. Where would he be without him? Not here, that was for sure.

 

* * *

 

The next consequence of the Wall Street disaster was something awaited breathlessly by every single person at the winter quarters, from every single outfit: the impact on the American Circus Corporation. The Sells-Floto workers had their desperate curiosity satisfied in late January when Zack Terrell finally showed up looking marginally thinner and like he’d spent the last month arguing. At least for once he didn’t seem hungover, thought Jiyong. His first announcement was made quickly and to everyone’s great relief: the Circus was not folding. Jiyong hugged Seunghyun’s arm and blinked back a couple of nervous tears that’d been threatening to spill.

“But economies have to be made,” said Terrell gravely from his seat on top of the store building so everyone could see him. This caused some muttering. “We’re shortening the run this season and we’ll see what the turnout’s like. We’re also to drop admission prices to seventy-five cents for the Big Top, subject to further reductions. The bosses are keeping an eye on average incomes and we can only charge what the market will bear.” Jiyong glanced up at Seunghyun, because wouldn’t charging less per ticket mean _they_ got less? Terrell clambered to his feet. “Everything else I’ll tell you as and when.”

“Well,” said Seunghyun later in the cookhouse, where everyone was eating like they might not get another meal and the staff were serving as if they could be fired tomorrow. “At least we still have jobs. For now.”

The next day rumors were whirling: their new owner John Ringling had lost everything in the Crash and had only the Corporation left; Terrell had lost a pile too and had pined away twenty pounds of weight; some rich guy was forming a charity to protect circus livelihoods just ‘cos he loved watching them; President Hoover had said there’d be no government help for businesses in trouble[26].

“The last one’s true, anyway,” said Seunghyun. They were waiting in line outside the office car, where everyone had been told to gather for an individual meeting with the general agent and Terrell. “The man’s useless: he doesn’t believe in mixing government and private finance so he’s just sitting on his tubby old ass waiting. Meanwhile I hear there’re breadlines round the block on the South Side.” Jiyong didn’t care about politicians just then: he cared what Terrell was about to tell them.

“Both of you, is it?” Terrell muttered as they entered the paper-strewn office. It was too dangerous to have a heater in there and it was freezing. “I should’ve known.” The agent passed him another piece of paper. “Right: the two of you can thank me, your contracts are safe for the season. You both work hard and more importantly your acts are a draw – the rubes love the fireworks and that stunt piece with Tom Mix.” He’d barely finished his sentence before Jiyong and Seunghyun were falling over themselves to thank him. The manager nodded: he was smoking the same fat Cuban cigar so Jiyong figured he wasn’t dirt-poor quite yet. “But expect to do a lot of Chinese[27].”

“Excuse me?” It was the first time Jiyong had heard _that_ circus term. Seunghyun was frowning beside him. Terrell flapped a hand dismissively.

“Talk about sensitive! It’s like cherry pie, only you don’t get paid for the extra work. But I’ve been told we can’t hire as many roustabouts this year so you’ll have to fetch and carry your own equipment and things.” He eyed Jiyong’s small frame. “Where possible.”

“All right,” said Seunghyun.

“And no pay rise, not this year. No promotions either,” Terrell told Jiyong pointedly.

“No, Boss,” said Jiyong, looking solemn. He didn’t care about that now, not when Tom had already raised him this high – with _his_ skin there probably wasn’t much higher to go in any case. And at least he wouldn’t be paid less; he could cut back on personal expenses, quit the cafés and jazz clubs they’d sometimes check out in the towns on a Saturday night, and forget about new clothes other than the costumes the Circus would pay for. That way he might even increase what he could send home. He could see Seunghyun doing his own mental calculations by the charming furrow between his eyebrows.

“Anything else?” Terrell asked, signaling that he wanted them out. They got up quickly.

“…Tom Mix _is_ coming back, isn’t he?” Jiyong asked as Seunghyun opened the door. The famous cowboy was probably the largest single-man expense in Sells-Floto history.

“You bet he is, John Ringling flew out himself to confirm it. The rubes might not think it’s worth their money now to turn out for lions and flyers and the Human Cannonball – but they’ll turn out for Tom and Tony.” Jiyong smiled broadly with relief and closed the door behind them. Seunghyun just sighed.

 

* * *

 

The Circus reassembled late that year: they were shaving several days off the run at the beginning and end, plus Terrell didn’t want to pay for any meals he didn’t have to. By the time Jiyong and Seunghyun waved the train off to Chicago it was April 8 and they had over two weeks to fill ‘til they could rejoin it in Missouri. Most seasons this hadn’t bothered them: they’d kept working, relaxed, done a bit of traveling maybe. But this year Jiyong’s stomach was in knots the entire time – it was a waste to spend money on accommodation and with the sideshow closed down he didn’t have a steady job. They _had_ to try and figure out a way to join the Chicago shows in future: not only to finally see their families but so they’d get _paid_ ; two weeks after tax for Jiyong was almost two hundred dollars and that money was going down the drain! 

He and Seunghyun picked up some day-work here and there, but suddenly there were far more people than positions that needed filling. As they hitched across the State through the countryside – train fare seemed expensive now – Jiyong nevertheless found that sometimes he and Seunghyun would be hired in favor of white guys; women tended to get picked first too. It was only later that he learned some employers did so ‘cos they could pay women and non-whites lower wages. That left Seunghyun fuming and Jiyong wasn’t best pleased about it, although to be frank he was bad at weeding and planting and picking rocks. He also _hated_ it; but he had to try.

Circus work promised to be no picnic either, not now everyone was picking up extra jobs for zero pay. Still, rejoining the train outside St. Louis felt like being plucked from Hell and taken up to Heaven: Jiyong got almost _emotional_ at working with the others again, which was not the response Timtam generally inspired in his friends. But Jiyong was so pleased to see him he dropped right to his knees and hugged him.

“I’m glad you didn’t get fired!” he said as the sideshow crew started laughing at him.

“Not for lack of tryin’,” replied Timtam, brandishing his flask with a belch. Jiyong knew he was lying, the dwarves had it even worse than Seunghyun and himself: if they couldn’t hold on to the circus work how many other careers were open to them? “Christ, get offa me, ya little flirt,” Timtam grumbled. “Go give it to your cowboy-toy and his horses!”

“He around?”

“Yeah, havin’ a whale of a time helpin’ herd the lead-stock to the tents – the train’s fuckin’ miles from the lot.”

“I noticed that,” said Seunghyun, ignoring the Tom Mix discussion. “It took us ages to get here.”

“Further from the railroad, cheaper the site rental,”[28] put in Ed. “And these new house builds keep pushin’ us back.” Jiyong went to sit next to him. The Ostrich had disappeared for his brother’s funeral and Jiyong had kinda figured maybe he’d stay gone, to help out his family or whatnot. A week later he was back: the Circus paid far better than any regular work going these days, he’d told them. Jiyong further suspected that Ed, like him, had few other job skills – and that maybe he also wasn’t too welcome back home.

“It’s so good to have everyone here!” Jiyong announced sappily, unsurprised by the sarcastic eye-rolls from his old colleagues. He didn’t take it back – he truly meant it.

 

* * *

 

Not everyone was sticking around. There was a huge shift that spring before the season even began, as the ripples of the Crash showed their effect upon the circus world: many outfits were trimming back, perhaps foreseeing even tighter times ahead. Some let go their expensive performers to transfer cheaper versions in from other circuses; the holes _they_ left behind were either filled with new kinkers from across the country or patched over with the current lineup; foreign workers were starting to see the benefit in returning to Europe or Asia and leaving the Americans to what was becoming accepted as a firmly entrenched recession. Even though the train had two fewer cars this year Jiyong saw unfamiliar faces whenever he set foot in the back yard.

“This will be our last season, I think,” Yuyan told him as he quickly sewed a seam of her leotard back together before her troupe’s second routine. Jiyong’s knowledge of clothing had him on Wardrobe duty as one of his ‘Chinese’ jobs – God, Seunghyun hated that phrase; he hoped Yuyan had never even heard it.

“Seriously?!” he exclaimed, and in his distress jabbed her accidentally with the needle.

“Ouch!!” She cursed at him in her own language. “Yes. Our manager agrees, we will take a job on the European route again.” Jiyong could live without her teammates but he didn’t want _her_ to go – she’d helped him so much, and professionally speaking he relied on her guidance.

“Seunghyun reckons the economy’s going to shit worldwide,” he warned her. “Who says it’ll be better over there?”

“Then we will return to Hong Kong.” Yuyan sounded ambivalent about that but determined to go. “Who knows, maybe you take our spot!”

“Oh, you!” he said fondly. The small woman huffed. Jiyong finished sewing her up and hurried off to put on his own white and gold costume – in the midst of all this uncertainty the best escape was to the air.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong’s concerns piled up as the Circus toured on through May, until the weight of money and work and family seemed almost unbearable. His act gave him a great deal of joy; but once it was over every night he’d lie brooding beside Seunghyun, in danger of falling out of bed whenever the train jolted – Seunghyun was bigger and not a skilful tumbler like him so Jiyong made him sleep on the wall side. Seunghyun reciprocated by instantly knowing when his lover’s sense of responsibility was becoming overwhelming; then he would tie Jiyong to the bed-frame and order him, instruct him, torment and pleasure him ‘til his body turned to Jell-O and his burdens dissolved and floated away like smoke. Jiyong prayed it would never stop being effective. But even that release was temporary.

There were other concerns, things he didn’t dare tell Seunghyun. Jiyong had held off pursuing these for a long time since the Crash; all he did these days was follow the national news, once everyone had confirmed that Sells-Floto didn’t seem to be badly affected. Mind you, the way Terrell was looking lately made Seunghyun think they weren’t so safe after all; he and Jiyong resolved to save more money, and everyone else was doing the same – the Circus was secretly stuffed with diamonds. But Jiyong’s curiosity – he didn’t care to say ‘worry’ – about something less immediate was niggling at him so, and it couldn’t be put off any longer. So he bought a financial paper and flipped through it; to his frustration he could make neither head nor tail of the damn thing.

He couldn’t ask Seunghyun for help on this so he set off along the train next morning to find someone who could read it for him. The agent’s car was still dark. Jiyong walked on ‘til he found Tom Mix sitting on his steps drinking coffee. His horses were picketed in a patch of grass beside the tracks, but as usual Tony No.1 was free and came ambling over as Jiyong approached.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” said Tom to both of them. Jiyong smiled at him: he was rich – he’d just been acquitted on tax evasion charges to the tune of seventy-five thousand, the papers said – so he _had_ to know about finances. 

“I don’t have anything,” Jiyong told Tony, whose lips were fumbling at his hands optimistically. Tom removed a carrot from his pocket and let Jiyong feed it to the horse, then beckoned him to come sit on the step.

“What you got there?” He nodded at the paper under Jiyong’s arm. The younger man showed him. “Checkin’ your investments?” said Tom. “It’s dangerous times all right.”

“I don’t have investments!” Jiyong told him, tickled. “But I do wanna check. You can understand these things, right?” He pointed at the stock market pages.

“Sure,” said the cowboy. “Can’t be leaving everythin’ to my advisors, bunch of crooks. Which ones you wanna know about?”

“General Electric, Commonwealth Edison outta Chicago…” Jiyong reeled off the few companies he could remember, but he’d never paid much attention to this stuff back when he’d lived there. Still, it oughta give him a rough idea. He watched anxiously as Tom ran his callused finger down the small-print lists.

“Not too bad,” said the older man at last. Jiyong let out a deep sigh. “I’d need to see the numbers from before the Crash to really tell, but they seem as high as could be expected in the circumstances.” He returned the paper. “What’s your interest in utilities stock?”

“Oh…” Jiyong felt himself go pink, and pursed his lips uncomfortably. “Just…someone I used to know.” He knew if he’d been talking to Seunghyun right now that would’ve been the start of a massive row. Jiyong couldn’t explain even to himself why he was so curious as to whether Mr. Insull’s many corporations had survived the Crash, but he felt a whole lot better. Tom gave him one of his crooked, photogenic smiles and sipped quietly at his coffee. “Thanks,” said Jiyong, and meant it.

“Anytime, son. Here, listen to this idea I got for our act…” 

They sat there in the morning sunshine, listening to the sound of exotic animals being exercised further down the line and Tom’s actress wife making her healthy breakfast inside the car – Jiyong gathered the fourth Mrs. Mix wasn’t too keen on circus life and wouldn’t eat anything from the cookhouse; the only reason she stuck around the train was that she was said to be as jealous as Seunghyun. But Jiyong felt so comfortable here, despite Seunghyun’s concern about his liking for the famous cowboy. It was nothing like that, he was sure of it. Tom was a notorious womanizer, but in spite of this, or maybe because of it, it felt completely safe being around him: unlike Gough, Tom never touched Jiyong except when showing him how to ride Tony, never looked at him in a way Jiyong recognized as desire. All he’d done since they’d met was help Jiyong out, and apparently without self-interest. How many other men could Seunghyun say that about?

 

* * *

 

Given the mood of the country the tour was going amazingly well, and by June the Cirkies declared themselves to be in a better position than the regular folk of America with regard to their security. Sure, everyone was on edge about their job: some of the small dog-and-pony shows and even a couple of prominent circuses had gone under already, and everybody at Sells-Floto seemed to be watching Terrell’s moods like he was a weather gauge and permanently holding their breath. But at least they had their savings. This was one of the first times Jiyong and Seunghyun truly believed themselves more fortunate than ordinary people: banks were folding like card houses as the bottom went out of the market, taking loans and life savings with them, but as far as Jiyong could tell the only ones scared about _that_ around here were the executives and high-value acts: the ones who did normal-people things like have bank accounts. The rest of them, he and Seunghyun included, clutched their diamonds close and offered prayers of thanks that they lived outside the pale of society. They’d written to their families to do the same. Seunghyun was fairly sure his father thought he was crazy for telling him to get on the jewel standard after the Crash; but to their relief he’d done it anyway.

This didn’t mean there weren’t anxieties, and bad tempers and fights and emotional breakdowns. Seunghyun’s liquor was more in demand than ever as they all listened for news: there was rumor already that next year’s run would be shortened by weeks, that they might have to lose some acts or at least more roustabouts. Terrell wasn’t careless of his people’s welfare but he was a businessman first and had to answer to the Corporation. Jiyong promised himself he’d be more polite to the manager in future – he held their careers by an even finer thread than before.

On the other hand, the 1930 season had its bright spots too. The first was that Daesung finally proposed – on his knees in the middle of a jazz dive – and Soomin accepted him. It was about goddamn time, thought Jiyong in a flurry of relief. He said the same to Daesung on the phone after receiving the couple’s excited letter. Now all they had to do was get through the preparations and lengthy family meetings of the engagement period. Jiyong hoped it’d be short; Soomin, who was determined that her brother be there at her wedding, vowed it would be long if it had to. But Jiyong slept safer knowing that sooner or later it was gunna happen.

Then at the end of May in Albany an energetic, lanky man from New York came visiting and Jiyong was fetched to see him. The smaller man, still sequined and bedazzled from the evening show, stared this person up and down curiously: somehow the visitor managed to look even flashier than himself. He was probably in his early forties, had on a brown and burgundy checkered suit, shiny correspondent shoes, and jewels in his tiepin: in short, a skinny version of Terrell, minus cigar plus bright red hair. Jiyong’s instincts pricked him and he started to feel a little excited ‘cos that outfit screamed _agent_.

And so he was. Sam Zabrowski – Zabbi, Jiyong was told to call him – was a theatrical and talent agent outta NYC. He gave Jiyong his card and reeled off a list of past and present clients he’d managed, several of which Jiyong had heard of so they had to be at least slightly successful.

“Ask around,” Zabbi suggested as Jiyong carefully read the small letters. “Someone here will know me; they’ll tell you I’ll do you right. I saw your act when you came through last year – very eye-catching – and I thought to myself, this boy’s gotta have management already. When I found out you didn’t I was gonna throw my hat in, but then the Crash came and I had to start hedging my bets.” He smiled at Jiyong, who was listening with a mixture of pleasure at being praised and impatience to know what, if anything, this chatty loud-suited person might be offering him. “So I waited to see if you’d hang on – if you could still charm the rubes even in these hard times. Well, I just watched all four of your New York dates and I’m convinced.” Zabbi paused. “I’m offering to manage you, kid, the least you could do is introduce yourself.”

“Oh!” said Jiyong, flustered. “I’m…Jiyong.”

“Just ‘Jiyong’?” The younger man nodded, bottom lip between his teeth. He supposed he oughta make up a surname, he’d not needed to so far. “Hmm,” said the agent. But he must be used to Cirkies and their tendency to be hiding one thing or another, because he merely smiled again. “We’ll make it Ji Yong, no-one can tell with these Chinese names.”

“Korean.”

“Yeah, sure. Anyway, why don’t you consider it? I can get you good work in the off season, the high-faluting city theater crowd will love your act – very artistic. And luckily they’re the only ones who don’t seem to be hurting in this Depression.”

“What’s your fee?” asked Jiyong. He felt a bit outta his depth now but he hoped he knew enough not to get screwed over.

“The usual: ten percent.”

“I gotta talk it over with…someone,” he said hesitantly; he needed Seunghyun’s input on this, plus Timtam and Yuyan’s if he could find them in time.

“No rush.” Zabbi picked up his satchel – it was worn but not threadbare and was fine quality leather, which Jiyong took as a reassuring sign of his longevity in the job. “Think it over tonight and give me your answer after tomorrow’s show. But it’s a chance you oughta take – we live in uncertain times.” He shook Jiyong’s hand, dropped him a wink, and bounced out of the car.

“Well,” said Terrell, climbing back in a bare moment later, so soon that he’d probably been earwigging outside. He puffed a cloud of smoke in his artist’s direction, but Jiyong was mildly amazed to see his little eyes twinkle. “Aren’t you getting popular!”

“…You think he’s good?” asked Jiyong. “You think I should?” Terrell expansively took a seat.

“You’d be a fool not to. _Exposure_ , Jiyong: it’s good for you, and me, and the Circus as a whole.” Jiyong nodded slowly, his body fizzing with excitement but his mind racing. Tabi, that was who he needed to talk to: because Seunghyun was the only one who knew how badly Jiyong wanted this – but how deadly exposure might turn out to be for both of them.

 

“An agent?” said Seunghyun as he took the card. He read Zabrowski’s credentials, thumb rubbing the edge of the paper as if testing its quality.

“Timtam says he’s heard of him – at least, he hasn’t heard anything bad. And the gaffer told me I oughta.”

“Hmm.” Jiyong curled up on the bunk beside him.

“But Tabi, ought I?” Seunghyun looked at him carefully.

“Isn’t this what you wanted from day one? A chance to be a name in this world…” The smaller man nodded, biting his lip. Seunghyun’s expression softened and he reached out to touch the delicate line of Jiyong’s jaw, fingers trailing along it in a comforting gesture.

“But that’s just it,” said Jiyong, catching the hand in both his own to play with Seunghyun’s thumb. “Can I afford to _have_ a name with Capone still at large? Not to mention all the other faces from our past…” Seunghyun’s other hand landed on his knee to draw absent circles; the extra contact calmed both of them. 

“Before this year…I’d have said no. I’d say it was your vanity talking, that you think you can’t flourish without the attention – that whatever fame this agent can give you isn’t worth the risk of being recognized.”

“And now?” Jiyong wasn’t at all sure that those weren’t still his motives, at least in part. 

“Now…” said Seunghyun. “Can you afford _not_ to?” Jiyong pursed his lips. He thought about his sister’s family, his father’s health, the security of his parents’ rented house, not to mention his own savings for their future. “You know I’ll help you however I can,” promised Seunghyun. “But it looks like you’ve got a chance to out-earn me – and I think…” He inhaled deeply. “I think you oughta take it. So long as you don’t use your real name – and your contract states _clearly_ that you don’t play venues in Illinois.” His voice was firm and supportive, and yet Jiyong could hear the melancholy behind his lover’s confidence: _family_. It thrummed through Seunghyun’s mind the way money did through Jiyong’s – and still Jiyong couldn’t help him. He vowed to himself again that he would _be_ Seunghyun’s family ‘til they could one day return to Chicago.

“Then I’ll accept,” he said decisively; holding his beloved’s hand even tighter he leaned forward to kiss him, as solemn as the sealing of a contract. “But I’ll tell him I have one condition: that wherever he takes me, you go too.”

 

* * *

 

The contract was signed: Jiyong put his first name to paper with unease and anticipation after Seunghyun came to meet Zabbi. He wasn’t sure what the New Yorker made of Seunghyun; most likely he’d pinned Jiyong as a ‘fairy’ like the rest of ‘em anyway, in which case it wouldn’t be a big leap to assume the older man was his lover. But the agent didn’t bat an eyelid and agreed to Jiyong’s terms: yes to Seunghyun as his companion and assistant – accommodation and daily expenses to be paid by the contracting venues, assistant’s wages outta Jiyong’s own pocket – and no to Chicago. Zabbi had given him an interesting stare when he’d heard that one. Still, he didn’t complain, merely told Jiyong he’d be in contact with potential winter bookings and that he was sending a photographer down to take some publicity shots.

“Who’ll see ‘em?” asked Jiyong cautiously.

“Just venues, other booking agents,” Zabbi assured him. “Don’t you worry, I’ll take good care of you.” And with that they shook hands and parted ways.

Jiyong went back to his busy daily round with a new spring in his step; he felt that in spite of everything his life might be going somewhere. Would his House-bound self ever have dared imagine himself sitting on a movie star’s shoulders while navigating an obstacle course on the back of a beautiful horse, before taking to the sky in a whirl of crimson silk? It was almost ridiculous how far he’d come – and where he might be going next. His solo act was becoming more elegant: the photographer sent by Zabbi seemed to like it, he told Jiyong it was truly a piece of art and promised to colorize the performance photographs to show it off. Jiyong quietly requested that he mail him a small print of one of the headshots – he wanted to give it to Seunghyun to add to his older picture, and to help them both forget the time when Seunghyun had preferred the photograph of his lover to the real thing.

As he became a more accomplished rider his collaboration with Tom also got more impressive; and more fun, now that there was less chance of him cracking his head open in a fall. He and Tom and Ezra would get together for proper imported coffee early on Sunday mornings, then work on the new tricks throughout the week in between Jiyong’s other duties – Tom didn’t have any extra work, of course, but he was happy as a clam herding the menagerie animals to the tents every day and rounding up any runaways with his lasso. In his rare free time Jiyong would relax and shoot the shit with his old sideshow friends, or write to his family, or maybe take in a gallery or museum if it was free and Seunghyun wanted to go. They quit living it up in the jazz clubs and eating out at weekends: anything that cost money was off the table. The only exception was Jiyong’s skincare routine, ‘cos he had to draw the line _somewhere_.

They tried to ignore the onset of the Depression. Regardless of what the country’s leaders constantly repeated it didn’t show any signs of getting better, but they were doing all they could to keep their little fortunes safe. Better to be active, Jiyong and Seunghyun agreed, than sink into the unvoiced despair that grew up either side of the train like weeds as they passed through Nebraska into Colorado that hot midsummer. You didn’t really notice it within the magic circle of the Circus itself, not at first; but it was all there outside the window. Where once Jiyong had marveled at the modernity and brightness that Mr. Insull’s electric and transport networks had built, now the same villages lay looking forlorn and quiet. Where before the large towns and cities on their route had beckoned to them, promising hijinks and luxury, now there were lines for charity ‘soup kitchens’ and increasingly sprawling homeless camps. Jiyong was both scared of those sights and full of pity for the people the train rushed past. Sometimes he wondered why: he’d been terribly poor himself, once upon a time, and he knew it was possible to survive it. Perhaps it was fear – that if he didn’t succeed in this new life he might be thrown back into that one. He wasn’t sure he could weather the change; it’d been simpler when he was a kid, but now in his mid-twenties everything seemed to weigh more heavily.

And still the crowds came streaming from miles around to see the exotic sights. Sure, the Circus Corporation had lowered their prices, but Jiyong couldn’t grasp what made people come, and began to worry that every ticket sold was taking a meal from some family. Once or twice he’d almost cried to see them flock onto the Midway; with each month of the season they seemed to look thinner. Some of the Cirkies appeared to resent the uncomfortable reality of the outside world the rubes brought with them; others, like Jiyong, simply found it hard to understand.

“Don’t you get it?” murmured Seunghyun, wrapping both arms across his chest. Jiyong leaned back against him for comfort. “They come to escape, just for a few hours. Isn’t that why we go to the movies, listen to radio plays? Don’t tell me you never did that in the House.”

“I didn’t; I snuck out and went dancing. I wanted to be _more_ in the world, not less.” Seunghyun rested his chin on Jiyong’s shoulder.

“That’s ‘cos you’re not scared of anything. But the rest of us are. So don’t upset yourself if people want to come forget – just focus on how happy we make them.” He sighed. “Actually, I feel the most useful I’ve felt in years.” Jiyong tipped his head back and kissed his cheek.

“…I wanna _do_ something,” he said fretfully; he sure didn’t feel fearless these days. A bevy of scrawny children rushed past them, their skin tanned almost to nutmeg. All the kids were darker this year, as if they’d been working outside like grown-ups; when they were running and laughing like this it was impossible to tell if they were white or Asian or Hispanic or what. Jiyong consoled himself by thinking that at least in this moment they all looked like they were enjoying themselves.

“You can’t,” Seunghyun told him, resigned. “All you can do is give people pleasure.” The smaller man sighed.

“At least I’m trained to do _that_.” Jiyong was expecting the same grimace he always got when he referred to his past career. But for once Seunghyun only smiled and held him tight.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 25The causes of the Crash and subsequent Great Depression are so complicated I barely understand all the details and it’d take forever to explain, so Seunghyun is very much simplifying here (but that’s ok ‘cos Jiyong doesn’t understand it either ^^;). I used loads of sources to try and grasp how it affected ordinary people, including Richard Wormser’s _Growing Up in the Great Depression_ (1994).[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 26Most of these rumours were true: John Ringling made a huge mistake when he bought the Circus Corporation so soon before the Crash, and a lot of his wealth was wiped out. However, a guy called Melvin Hildreth Jr., who was once U.S. District Attorney, was absolutely fascinated by circuses and did a lot of pro bono work to keep them afloat, and ensured they would be protected industries in Depression-era legislation. President Hoover was indeed useless in helping out companies struck by the Depression ‘cos he thought government and private industry shouldn’t mix, which was maybe good for huge corporations (actually Hoover was a big champion of Insull) but bad news for small family-owned businesses in need of help.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 27Circus and carnival workers called unpaid work ‘Chinese’ in reference to the near-slavery-like working conditions of early Chinese immigrant labourers in the U.S.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 28It wasn’t only the Depression that caused the decline of the circus industry: growing suburban sprawl forced the lots further and further from the centre of town and the railway stations, so it was harder to get customers. At the same time increased access to other entertainment like radio and the movies made the arrival of the circus less important to communities.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> The title song for this chapter is _'I Hitched My Wagon To A Star'_ by Martha Tilton (1937).  
>  Next chapter: the boys have some luxurious fun :)


	12. Puttin' On The Ritz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong persuades Seunghyun to enjoy the luxuries of life while he can.

It was the farm that did it. The train was having some kinda engine-related problem and was running slow – they’d be late into Oakland, the advance men might even have to cancel the matinée. To everyone’s alarm the locomotive slowed still further, then eased to a halt in the middle of the California farmland and sat there coughing under the sun; the brand-new ac power shut down.

“Gotta cool her off!!” bawled Paul the car manager down the line, the engineers passing it on to Terrell’s car at the back. Everyone who knew anything about trains jumped down and congregated near the engine while the Cirkies poked their heads out to see what was going on.

“What is it?” called Jiyong to the Chinese troupe in the next car.

“I think they get water from that farm!” one said, pointing. Down a shallow slope away from the tracks, past a dry plot of land, was the farmhouse. Jiyong had always liked to see happy farming families: they embodied his old fantasy of what the American countryside oughta look like, green vegetables, fair-haired chubby kids, cheese and butter and dogs. This place couldn’t be further from that perfect image. There’d been something growing in the front field – Jiyong was no farmer, he couldn’t tell what – but the leaves were yellow and brittle. The house looked dusty, the whole plain covered with a thin layer of haze, and the entire property was sorta… _wonky_.

As Jiyong and Seunghyun watched, two men – an agent and an engineer – set off toward the house, hats in hand. A woman appeared before they reached it; her head turned to look fixedly at the train with its line of bright tarpaulins and painted wagons. Then she stepped down to speak with them. It was kind of a distance but Jiyong thought she was barefoot, though that wasn’t extraordinary in this climate. She was carrying a kid on her hip while another small shape lurked behind her. The agent gestured at the train, presumably explaining what they needed. The mother – Jiyong wanted to say part Latina or Native American from the lovely color of her skin and hair – lifted her free hand in a helpless gesture: they had no spare water to give. 

“Looks like it hasn’t rained in a while,” commented Seunghyun as he fanned himself with a route sheet. “But it must be bad if the irrigation’s broken down.”

“S’pose we’ll just hafta wait for the engine to cool on its own,” said Jiyong absently. He leaned his chin on his folded arms and gazed out of the window as the Circus representatives trudged back to the train through a wavy miasma of heat. The woman and her children were staring back, not moving. He wondered where her husband was, if he was even around. Jiyong was too far away to read the woman’s expression; but the determined set of her shoulders was somehow one of the most desolate things he’d ever seen.

It was two hours before the engine was patched up and they could move on. And even curled in Seunghyun’s arms that night Jiyong couldn’t forget how alone she’d looked.

 

* * *

 

They had three days in San Francisco. It was a swinging city, the perfect place to forget all the hardships of the road. All the same, Jiyong couldn’t. What he _could_ do was drag Seunghyun to the nearest open café and use the payphone to call Daesung.

“Hi!” said the older man’s tinny voice in Jiyong’s ear once Seunghyun had got off the horn and wandered outside. “How’s the trip going?”

“How’s Soomin?” countered Jiyong.

“Claire? We just went to the matinée before you called, saw _Animal Crackers_. Hilarious! I saw her home safe, of course,” Daesung added, remembering who he was talking to. But Jiyong didn’t care about Marx Brothers pictures right now.

“Marry her, Dae,” he urged without any more small talk. “As quick as you can – don’t wait for me!”

“Eh?! She won’t like _that_.” Daesung sounded thrown, then rightly nervous of what his fiancée would think of him telling her they had to leave her brother out of the wedding.

“Doesn’t matter. Dad most likely wouldn’t have me there anyway, remind her of _that_. Do it now: you’ve still got your job and a place to give her a home, and if the worst happens you could take her back to Seoul and make it up with your old man, right?”

“Of course, but-”

“Look, she needs protecting – she won’t think so, but she does.” Since the reports had started coming outta Chicago about the thousands of people made homeless, the trouble on the streets and the Hooverville hobo ghettos filled with penniless young men, Jiyong hadn’t been able to stop worrying about Soomin. His parents and Dami too, of course, but his eldest sister had a good man already and none of them were as adventurous as the youngest. And the sight of that lonely woman at the farmhouse door with no-one but herself to lean on was the last straw. “It’s so dangerous now!” he told Daesung. “For the sake of my damn _sleep_ , for God’s sake set a date.”

“Right,” promised the older man, who seemed to need very little pushing. “We’ll do it. She’ll shout my ear off but we’ll go ahead without you.” 

Jiyong heaved a sigh of relief: he could trust Daesung, who’d helped them so much before in their hour of need. He said goodbye and put the receiver down, then walked outside to join Seunghyun. It was a bright, hot day and his lover was sitting on the stone lip of a fountain drinking his soda, eyes closed and handsome face upturned. Seunghyun looked so perfect, so alive and beautiful; it made Jiyong sad to see the shuttered storefronts around him, as if the place was in a coma. The fountain was switched off, its stone pool dry. The only color in the street was the bright Circus billposters.

Seunghyun smiled up at him and for a moment took his hand. He rubbed his thumb across Jiyong’s fingernails, which these days were bitten down with worry.

“He said yes?” the bigger man asked. Jiyong nodded tightly: he wouldn’t relax ‘til Soomin was under their friend’s care by law. Seunghyun observed his expression closely, then stood up to loom over him. “Wanna forget it all?” he asked solemnly. Another nod, more fervent. “I’ll make you, tonight.” Jiyong pictured himself in their small compartment, restrained and mindless with every burden ordered out of his head. He took Seunghyun’s arm and melted against him as they left the slumbering village.

“ _Thank you_ , Tabi.”

 

* * *

 

They arrived back in Indiana mid-October, feeling like they’d never worked so hard. Everyone was exhausted but at the same time grateful Sells-Floto had kept its head above water and seemed set to carry on for the next year. An air of cautious optimism flowed around the Cirkies as they scattered after the home run – only the very well-off stars would relax this winter, the rest of them planned to find work and save up some insurance against what might be coming next. Even Timtam had booked a few jobs, if only to pay for his booze: Seunghyun wouldn’t be bootlegging a lot ‘til spring so everyone was gunna have to source their own liquor. He had other plans.

This year when the season ended Jiyong and Seunghyun didn’t sit back and watch their colleagues depart. As soon as they unloaded at Peru Zabbi was there: Jiyong was determined to make the most of the winter and had agreed to almost every date his new manager proposed so they’d have to hustle if they were gunna reach the first venue on time.

“We had two options,” Zabbi told them as he led them through the station to the New York train. “You could be a major act in the sticks or a minor act in the big city theaters. If you wanna be successful the second one’s better, ‘cos that’s where the rich congregate.”

“Okay,” said Jiyong, jogging to keep up with his lanky manager’s stride. Behind him came Ezra, then Seunghyun, who was glancing back anxiously at the last man in their procession, a station porter with their new suitcases. Jiyong could tell the older man felt weird at having someone carry their luggage for them; himself, he wasn’t complaining – it felt like a welcome pinpoint of luxury, taking him back to the old days when he hadn’t had to lift anything heavier than a bathrobe.

“You’ll do two performances a day most places, same as the Circus. Three at a couple of the venues. You’re low down in the billing, for various reasons – nobody knows quite what your act is yet.”

“It’s all right,” said Jiyong. He was just happy to be working.

“Forty bucks a day, five days a week. The further up the billing you go the more it’ll rise.” Jiyong shivered happily at the thought of all that money: he’d be able to give Seunghyun a job, pay the family’s expenses for the winter _and_ get Soomin a lovely gift. It was going to be a Christmas wedding, she’d said when she’d ordered him to call so she could yell at him for strong-arming Daesung. Jiyong didn’t know her well enough to know what kind of thing she’d want, but Dami could tell him.

“Wow!” put in Ezra at the thought of forty dollars a day – minus _his_ pay, minus Zabbi’s cut, which still left Jiyong with about five times what he’d ever made at the Peru sideshow. The young man was accompanying them to train Seunghyun as Jiyong’s fill-in rigger before heading home to his mother for the holidays. Jiyong didn’t know how happy his lover really was at taking on a job that involved climbing very small ladders to great heights, but it’d been Seunghyun’s idea and he wasn’t gunna argue ‘cos it’d let them spend more time together.

They boarded the train, second class, and managed to grab an empty compartment. Jiyong sat back and dreamed of the day when he might take a first-class ticket in a Pullman car; maybe even next year if he could get himself noticed. Other passengers bustled past along the corridor, occasionally pausing to peer inside. There were still empty seats but most of them hurried on, making Seunghyun curl his lip. Was it the two of them, wondered Jiyong, or Zabbi’s loud hair and tailoring that put them off? Or just their general air of oddity? Eventually a couple of boys who looked like college students took the spare seats, and the train pulled out.

New York reminded Jiyong of Chicago: its snow, the towering architecture, and the sheer pushy life of the place made him awfully nostalgic even though he’d never set foot inside the city proper. If the look in Seunghyun’s large eyes was anything to go by he had the same feeling. Zabbi had booked Jiyong in a couple of theaters on the ‘subway circuit’ – a group of vaudeville venues that’d grown up close to the stations for convenience – followed by two nights in a rather grand theater that entertained the rich with everything from opera to elephants.

“Hope the hotel’s okay,” said Zabbi, marching them into the lobby. “They’re used to entertainers, but if they give you any lip ‘cos of…you know, your _look_ …just tell me and I’ll sort ‘em out.” Seunghyun grunted. Zabbi checked them in, tipped everyone who oughta be tipped, and deposited Ezra in a shabby bedroom on the second floor before showing Jiyong and Seunghyun to a plain but comfortable room further up. The elevator boy was peering at Jiyong with unabashed curiosity – he realized one of his tattoos was showing. He smiled at the boy, who blushed.

“Right!” Zabbi announced after the porter had left. “Get some rest tonight, I’ll take you to the Opera House – it’s nothing fancy, don’t get excited – in the morning. You can meet the manager, check your spot in the lineup, then set up and rehearse. Okay?”

“Thanks,” said Jiyong, who wanted nothing more than to get shot of him and climb into the bath – a real, full-size bath! In a private room!

“I’ll be staying at home while we’re in New York. Any problems, get on the horn to the second number on my card.”

“Thank you!” said Seunghyun pointedly, eyeing the door. Zabbi clapped him on the shoulder.

“Have fun, boys. And remember to _rest_.” His red head disappeared and the door closed.

“…He gave us a double bed,” observed Seunghyun. He blushed that lovely golden-pink, which Jiyong had always found charming.

“Mmm. And once we’ve found some food and you’ve done my hair – why not, like the old days? – you and me are gunna make real good use of that bed.” Seunghyun grinned at him, then pounced. “See?” said Jiyong breathlessly as he slid both arms round the bigger man’s neck, “aren’t you glad we came now?”

 

* * *

 

Working the subway circuit was pretty much like working the Big Top but with people you didn’t know. And what a mix of people: alongside Jiyong at the Opera House was a musical comedienne, a pack of trick-performing dogs, a troupe of acrobats and jugglers, a stand-up, a couple of Broadway singers, a magician, and a well-known trapeze artist headlining. Jiyong figured this was really what you called a ‘variety show’. The theater was pretty, everything done up in ivory, green and old gold, but it was tiny compared to the Top: only one side of spectators instead of an entire circle surrounding him. On the other hand that put Jiyong closer to their gazes so he wasn’t complaining. The stage ceiling was lower too, and even when fully raised his silks almost brushed the floor; Seunghyun was gunna have an easy time with the rigging if this was the standard.

Jiyong enjoyed these small theaters. The audience was pretty similar to what you got in the Grandstand at the Circus: middle class, careless of whether an act was highbrow or low as long as it entertained them. They seemed to like him well enough, especially when he learned to add a bit of physical comedy to his routine, and he imagined he’d be comfortable on this circuit regardless of the city. His engagement in the big theater was very different. The first thing Jiyong noticed was its size: absolutely palatial, with a faraway ceiling that gave him more room for stunts and gave Seunghyun the willies. The second was the lineup. There were no dogs here, no music hall stars or clowns. He found himself almost at the bottom of the billing, going on before an elegant bevy of Russian tumblers, a ballet, the always-popular performing elephants, and a famous Soprano – Jiyong had seen her years ago when he’d been a half-hearted opera goer beside Mr. Insull. He thought he might stand out in this crowd, if only ‘cos his was the one face that wasn’t white.

“I shouldn’t think they let African-Americans perform,” said Seunghyun darkly as he hauled on a rope. “These big fancy barns are snobbish as hell. And I’m _damn_ sure you won’t see anyone like us in the audience.”[29]

“That’s so dumb,” said Jiyong. For a moment he missed the closed world of the Circus, where what you could offer mattered a whole lot more than what color your parents were. But he went off to rehearse anyway.

The high-class theater crowd loved him. Jiyong knew it the second he began his first graceful drop, the red silks a floating curtain of fire and his costume a tight-fitting tribute to Korean traditional dress. They wouldn’t recognize it, he knew that, they probably thought he was Japanese – but he didn’t care how they exoticized him ‘cos he could _feel_ their attention and the stares of admiration. He stripped all the comedy from his act, made it as beautiful and artistic as he knew how, and found himself soaring amid the gold and chandeliers in a sea of applause. The theater was too big to see many of their faces, only those in the expensive boxes; but that glitter of women’s jewels, the satin and beading of their dresses and the luxurious black of evening jackets took Jiyong back to someplace he hadn’t been in years, and he basked in the double richness of praise and couture fashion ‘til both feet were on the ground again.

“You got a kick out of that, didn’t you,” said Seunghyun drily. He helped Jiyong on with his coat and they exited the closet-size dressing room.

“I did!” the younger man agreed, still high on the feeling and not ashamed of it.

“Good job!” Zabbi strode up in his blue suit and lavender tie; he was practically rubbing his hands. “I think we’ve found your niche,” the manager told Jiyong as he escorted them out to a cab. “You look so exotic – and your act’s something different. Now: supper? Some music?” Jiyong glanced at Seunghyun: he looked resigned, but also pretty proud.

“Yeah,” said Jiyong – one night of excess couldn’t hurt his savings. “Let’s party!”

 

* * *

 

They finished the off season in Memphis at the Orpheum Theatre. It was brand new and seated over two thousand: gold leaf, marble, thick carpets and antique crystal; it looked like the House, and Jiyong was unsurprised when Zabbi informed him the architects were Chicagoans. It had the same brash, gorgeous but slightly-too-much glamor to it. Seunghyun hated it for what it reminded him of, and also ‘cos he had to climb higher than ever to rig Jiyong’s gear – Ezra had left them in December and the older man was now entirely responsible for Jiyong’s safety. Jiyong privately thought Seunghyun got a bundle of possessive satisfaction outta that fact, but he didn’t like heights any better than before.

It was a two-week run that took them up to the end of March, and Jiyong had to hand it to the Orpheum circuit: whoever was in charge put them up in a fantastic hotel. The Peabody was where everyone who was anyone in the arts and entertainment world in Tennessee gathered, said Zabbi, smug as if he owned it personally. Jiyong knew very well that in those terms he was no-one, but he guessed the Orpheum stashed all its acts there as a matter of course. There seemed to be some disagreement at the sumptuous lobby desk while they were waiting for Zabbi to check them in. It was obvious what it was about, Jiyong could see the snooty Southern clerk pointing at him. Well, that was what he was paying his manager for; and Zabbi, brash and kinda annoying as he could be, was damn good at winning an argument.

“Come on, then,” encouraged Zabbi, hustling over to them with a bellhop in tow to escort them to their room. As he strode along he started to speak, then stopped, then started again. “You might want to take my advice and try being…less conspicuous than usual,” said the manager, the most conspicuous person in the place. “They’re a bit funny here.” Seunghyun sneered at his back and took the cases from the kid, thrusting half a dollar at him so he’d go away. Jiyong curled his fingers round the bigger man’s wrist and held it calmingly. Seunghyun was still antsy when his lover shut the door on Zabbi and stepped into their suite.

“ _Ohh_ , Tabi,” breathed Jiyong. It was a lovely room: small and tucked away in a forgotten corner but decorated beautifully in cream and rose pink, with a huge bed that barely fit once the coffee table and chairs were taken into account; a bathroom with a tub and vanity, both boasting lion’s feet, and a wardrobe Jiyong would once have filled to the brim – their suitcases looked rather lonely there now.

“It’d be nicer if their policies weren’t so antique.” Seunghyun kicked off his shoes and flopped down on the bed. “You know what that fight downstairs was, right?”

“Of course, I’m not a chump.” Jiyong checked himself in the mirror: it was a flattering one. “You hungry?”

“Sure, but not for any of this stuff,” complained Seunghyun upon seeing the menu, obviously determined to play the Common Man for as long as they stayed here.

“Oh, hush, you old pussy-cat.” Jiyong rang for room service and did his best to look respectable when the bellhop finally arrived. Seunghyun was sulking and reading the paper. Jiyong gave the young man at the door his most charming smile; there was a bit of low conversation and Jiyong slipped him a few notes. “Y’know,” he said, after the bellhop had pattered off on his mission, “this really takes me back. I used to come to places like this all the time – I mean, bigger rooms but the same kind of hotel.”

“Huh!” Seunghyun knew exactly what he’d have been doing in those rooms.

“I used to love getting room service,” Jiyong reminisced. “It was way more fun than being stuck in the House. All this pretty décor used to really help get me in the mood.”

“Hmph!”

Jiyong smiled sweetly at his grumpy lover and vanished into the bathroom to freshen up. He put on his nicest clothes, which weren’t anything to write home about but there it was, and groomed his hair as if he was going on a date. A spritz of the cologne he’d bought himself before the Crash and only used for special occasions finished off the effect, and when he looked in the mirror he thought he might meet any of his old clients right now and still sweep ‘em off their feet. There was a knock at the door.

“Didja get it?” inquired Jiyong. The bellhop nodded and wheeled in a trolley carrying silver-covered dishes of pheasant and roasted vegetables, caramel tarts and fruit. The kid set it all on the table, then from the bottom of the trolley produced an ice bucket and champagne. Jiyong grinned. “Thanks!” He gave the boy another half-dollar and locked the door behind him. “Tabi, quit sulking,” he ordered. “Aren’t you hungry? My treat!” Seunghyun rustled the newspaper. Jiyong crawled up the bed and after a slight struggle removed it from his hands. “I’m feeling nostalgic,” he murmured, watching as Seunghyun’s pupils grew larger at his closeness and the tone of his voice. He pulled ‘til the bigger man was sitting upright. “So I’m gunna show you exactly how I used to spend my time in hotels like this.”

Seunghyun had given up complaining and was staring at his groomed figure admiringly. Jiyong popped the illegal champagne and poured him a glass – Seunghyun never said no to a drink – bringing it over to him so he didn’t have to exert himself. He watched Seunghyun take a few sips, focusing entirely on the older man.

“You like it?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s a good one. How much did it cost you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jiyong assured him. “Not tonight. Tonight it’s whatever satisfies _you_.” Seunghyun took another quick gulp at that, blinking his magnificent eyelashes at the fizz; Jiyong twitched the glass from his hand before he could empty it and had a taste himself, upending it to catch the last drop on his tongue. “Mmm! You’re right,” he said, giving him a smile – Seunghyun was watching him wide-eyed. “But then you _are_ the expert.” He got his lover another glass and finally poured one for himself. He drank it quick to make himself dizzy: he knew he looked charming like that even as an adult, as if the liquor oughta turn to soda the moment it touched his innocent lips.

Seunghyun’s ears were beginning to turn pink. Jiyong was kinda pleased with himself to find that he’d still got it. It was one of the performances his tricks had been the most eager to buy – even men and women who’d fucked him a hundred times loved his charade of youthful naivety; it was titillating. Just look at Seunghyun, who knew him better than anyone in the world: the bigger man was gazing at him so intently that if Jiyong said he was the King of England right now Seunghyun would probably play along. Jiyong gave himself a mental pat on the back and set about fulfilling his man’s next need: good food. It was fairly hard to serve roast squash and green beans erotically, so he did it fast and picked up the steel knife.

“Could you carve for me please, Tabi?” he said meekly, and curled one side of his mouth upward. “You’re so good with your hands…”

“You’re unbelievable,” Seunghyun told him. He didn’t shatter Jiyong’s seductive little scenario, though, just walked over to obediently carve the pheasant. Jiyong pressed the knife into his hand, fingertips gliding over his knuckles for good measure.

“How d’you like it, then?” Seunghyun poised the knife over the roast meat.

“ _Thick_ ,” Jiyong said huskily, and smirked to himself as the older man coughed.

“For chrissakes, I almost sliced my thumb off!” Seunghyun pointed the knife at a chair. “Go sit down and be quiet.” Jiyong obeyed and retreated to drink his champagne in the most provocative way possible. “Jesus, how many old codgers did you give a heart attack in your career?!” 

“Well…one, but he was fine once they got him to the emergency room.” Seunghyun shook his head and finished carving. Jiyong stood back up and served, gave Seunghyun his cutlery and napkin and refilled his glass, then perched on the arm of his chair and watched him eat. “Here, try this bit,” he suggested every now and then, spearing a choice cut of vegetable or juicy roast and offering it to Seunghyun on the end of his fork.

“I _am_ a grown-up, you know,” Seunghyun scolded him; but he took it all the same. When he was done Jiyong stacked the plates, which was the closest he’d ever been to housework while residing at the brothel. He joined his lover for dessert, commandeering his lap and feeding him the fruit and sweet pastries. “…You’re all sticky,” said Seunghyun; his voice had turned throaty. He raised his hand to brush sugar off Jiyong’s lip but the younger man caught it before he could and licked softly at the pad of his thumb.

“Don’t worry about that.” He kissed the sensitive stretch of skin between thumb and forefinger. “It’s my job to clean _you_ up.” And he took the digit into his mouth, biting the tip lightly, feeling Seunghyun go tense as a high-wire beneath him. “Oh,” murmured Jiyong at the telltale disturbance in Seunghyun’s trousers. “I better put you to bed – _mmph_!” Seunghyun stretched up and kissed him hard.

“Come _on_ , then,” Seunghyun rumbled, and stood up, locking his hands beneath the smaller man’s ass to lift him. “Play whatever games you like, but let’s not hang around!” Jiyong kissed him again, steered him to the enormous bed and let him fall back upon it full length. He knelt over Seunghyun’s hips and began to unbutton his vest and shirt for him, mouth following the same path down his beautifully molded throat: he wanted to see every inch of that lean and lovely body. “Wait.” Seunghyun was breathing fast, his eyes almost black with arousal. “You first.” He made no attempt to undress Jiyong – he’d grasped how this dynamic was meant to play out – just lay there, put his hands behind his head comfortably, and waited.

“Whatever you want,” said Jiyong, gratified.

“Strip for me.” Ooh, that gave Jiyong a tingle. Seunghyun’s eyes narrowed. “Just for me.”

“Yes, baby,” agreed Jiyong, kneeling up to straddle him and sliding his hands down his own shirtfront. “Only for you.”

He made it slow: started with his cufflinks, then every button, gradually exposing his tattooed skin. He hadn’t put anything on beneath his outfit, as Seunghyun realized to his obvious delight. Jiyong peeled off his shirt and spent some time caressing his upper body, tracing its slender lines. His fingers glided over his most significant ink, around the bullet scar on his left bicep, and along to brush his nipples. Seunghyun watched the younger man arouse himself with complete concentration. When Jiyong unbuttoned his pants and eased them down his thighs he caught a sharp indrawn breath of desire, but still Seunghyun made no move to touch him: he was gunna let Jiyong do all the work tonight.

Jiyong didn’t touch himself any more intimately, though he was aching to. Instead he returned to hover over Seunghyun’s body, not quite close enough for contact but enough to feel his heat. The bigger man’s breath was coming fast and shallow against his cheek, waiting for him to _do_ something. At last Jiyong sank down ‘til his semi-erect cock was nudging against Seunghyun’s thigh. He resumed undressing him, this time using nothing but his white teeth. He’d learned how to do this years ago; it wasn’t practical at all but he’d discovered people really got a kick outta it, and he’d practiced ‘til he could look both elegant and ravenous doing it. He pressed a kiss to the muscles of Seunghyun’s torso and felt hands come up to cup his head and encourage him downward.

“…You gonna do it all like that?” muttered Seunghyun. The hard bulge in his pants showed Jiyong what he thought of the idea.

“I’ll quit with the teeth once I get you naked,” Jiyong promised with a laugh. The belt buckle was hard to do, he struggled with it for a minute before Seunghyun’s fingers let up their guiding grip on his hair to help. The older man obligingly kicked his pants off and Jiyong tossed them across the room. He tugged Seunghyun’s underwear down with his teeth and couldn’t help the eager sound that escaped him at the sight of his cock, the tip already glistening and the whole length of it just asking to be tasted. Jiyong made himself pause, lean up on his elbows, and admire the entirety of his beloved’s wonderful body. He knew it made Seunghyun blush, but to Jiyong’s satisfaction he parted those long legs slightly of his own accord and let the smaller man look at him.

“What now…?” asked Seunghyun, hands stretching out to him. Jiyong licked his lips.

“Whatever you want.”

“Suck me. Please.” Jiyong smiled, ‘cos he woulda done it anyway. Seunghyun grabbed an extra pillow and stuck it behind him so he could look down at Jiyong giving him head without getting a sore neck.

“That’s right,” Jiyong nodded. “Be as lazy as you like, baby, I’m gunna do _everything_ for you.” He began to kiss Seunghyun’s belly, then the insides of his thighs where the hair was fine and soft; that golden skin was quivering beneath his lips, and as Jiyong quit teasing and let the tip of his tongue trace the bigger man’s balls he heard Seunghyun curse under his breath. He kissed his way up Seunghyun’s shaft, paying attention to the most sensitive spots without needing to think about it; instead he allowed himself to get lost in the sensations, the texture of soft skin and hard flesh under his tongue and the salt of precum at the tip.

“Jiyong…!”

“I know,” said Jiyong softly, and sealed his lips over the head without breaking eye contact. Seunghyun groaned as he began to suck. Jiyong bobbed his head, taking him deeper gradually enough that he knew it must be torture. He was glad he hadn’t lost his touch in the years since he’d left the House! Of course, it helped that he knew Seunghyun’s body so well – and it helped that he had Seunghyun’s heart. He used his lips, his tongue, his fingers too, and when Seunghyun was squirming helplessly beneath him he sucked in a breath and took him into his throat to the base. It’d taken him years to learn that – especially with someone Seunghyun’s size: how to angle his head, how to breathe through his nose, how to bully back his gag reflex ‘til he no longer had one. It was all worth it to hear his lover cry out like this, and Seunghyun sure didn’t complain when Jiyong slipped a wet finger inside him to add another layer of pleasure to the mix.

Jiyong knew Seunghyun was close to coming when his cock began to twitch and throb against his tongue; the older man’s groans grew frantic and his grip painful on Jiyong’s hair. He let up quickly and pushed himself to a kneeling position. Seunghyun looked like he was about to beg but Jiyong crawled up his trembling body ‘til he could sit across his hips, that delicious erection pressing hopefully against his buttocks.

“Take a breath,” Jiyong advised fondly; his own dick was at full attention now and he wasn’t gunna torment Seunghyun _too_ much longer. But he’d have to move eventually, so he slid off the bed and over to his suitcase to grab the Vaseline – he’d given up on the expensive floral oils he’d used to insist on when he wanted extra lubrication, and petroleum jelly was cheap and handy for so many things. He returned to straddle Seunghyun, who at a nod uncapped the pot for him. Jiyong wouldn’t make him do any more work than that. He settled himself lower ‘til his nipples brushed Seunghyun’s chest; balancing on one forearm he used his right hand to scoop a generous helping from the jar, and slid his fingers between his tattooed thighs to play with himself.

“ _Oh_ ,” murmured Seunghyun, his eyes glazed, “do that slowly – I can wait.” Jiyong leaned down and kissed his sternum, tongue flickering across the skin to taste his sweat. He trailed his fingers along the ultra-sensitive bit of skin behind his balls, shivering at the feeling, then dipped the tips between his tattooed buttocks; he was proud of their springiness and shape, the results of his long hours on the silks, and he explored their contours briefly to draw Seunghyun’s attention to how nice they looked. Seunghyun didn’t seem like he needed much encouragement: his eyes were fixed on Jiyong’s hand, and when one finger began to circle around the smaller man’s opening Jiyong thought his lover might orgasm from the mental stimulation alone – time to move this along, he wanted Tabi inside him, not wasting his climax on the empty air.

“Aahh…” He bit his lip as he pushed one finger inside himself, then another, slicking his insides and stretching them out. He could prepare himself quickly when he wanted to, not like the first couple of years when he’d needed – though hadn’t always been given, depending on the trick – a great deal of time and patience. Just for kicks he slid his middle finger further in to rub across that bump of nerves that made him see stars, and his moan caused Seunghyun’s hips to thrust upward involuntarily.

“Enough…having fun by yourself!” growled the bigger man. Jiyong nodded quickly, removed his fingers and spread his legs wider. He pushed himself back at the perfect angle where Seunghyun wouldn’t have to move another muscle, and wrapped his slippery hand around the straining erection to guide it inside him. He felt the stretch as his hole spread to receive it, loved the feeling when it was slow like this and when it was Seunghyun; then the inch-by-inch sensation of being filled as he sank down on his cock. Seunghyun’s long eyelashes fluttered and he grit his teeth, he looked more beautiful than anything Jiyong had ever seen, and coming from someone so vain that was a _compliment_.

“Ready?” Jiyong whispered, hands on Seunghyun’s chest to lever himself up so he could really ride him. Seunghyun grabbed his chin and dragged him down for an ardent open-mouthed kiss, then nodded, his large hands curling around Jiyong’s wrists – not to restrain him or instruct him, just to be touching him. “Then lie back and relax.” Jiyong pushed off with a gasp as the angle changed and began to move his hips. His thighs were strong beneath their plump outline and he rose and fell with ease, his skin meeting Seunghyun’s with a lewd slap at every fall. He worked on keeping it slow and steady, deeper and deeper ‘til he could feel the older man’s balls against his buttocks – but it was too much fun to see Seunghyun’s lovely eyes roll back as he rode his dick faster, and the leisurely pace didn’t last. Jiyong’s stamina was great since he’d joined the Big Top and he could keep up this wild canter a long time; Seunghyun was only human, though, and tonight was about _him_.

“…God, you feel so good!” gasped Seunghyun, lips parted as he fought to breathe deep; his skin was shimmering with sweat and slick between Jiyong’s legs as they gripped the older man’s hips. His hands left Jiyong’s slender wrists to clutch pleadingly at his ass. “You’re the _best_ , the best there is but for my sake _slow down_ …!”

“I am,” panted Jiyong, and did as he asked. Seunghyun took a shuddering breath and somehow managed a smile. Jiyong fucked himself leisurely and deep for a bit, enjoying the feel of Seunghyun’s cock and the secure grip of those strong fingers in the meat of his buttocks – he’d have bruises tomorrow. Once Seunghyun was moaning again Jiyong shifted his weight a little and there it was, the perfect angle and Seunghyun was hitting that magic spot _every single time_ , he was thrusting now in time with the smaller man, drawing out a delighted whimper from Jiyong’s lips with every stroke. Jiyong forced himself to ease off the angle ‘cos he wanted his lover to come first, that’d always been his main priority unless the client willed it otherwise and this was Seunghyun’s special treat. Seunghyun gripped him hard, pulled him down so he could hug him to his chest, and snapped his hips upward faster and faster ‘til he came yelling out with his face buried in Jiyong’s mussed hair.

“…That’s it, baby, love you, I love you!” managed Jiyong, pressing distracted kisses to his throat, his collar-bone: he knew those were the words Seunghyun wanted to hear above all others. For several seconds Seunghyun held him so tight he could hardly breathe; but he didn’t complain, let his Tabi take his time and soften inside him.

“ _My Jiyong_ ,” said Seunghyun in a rumble against his ear. Jiyong was trying not to writhe against him to get pressure on his own demanding erection, but it was getting hard – no pun. Then: “Lemme see you,” Seunghyun suggested. With languid hands he helped Jiyong sit up and raised his long legs to give him something to lean back on. Jiyong rested heavily against his thighs. Seunghyun pushed Jiyong’s legs apart, then stuck his hands behind his head again and with a broad and satiated smile watched him jerk off. Jiyong put on a show, he was still as good as a pro after all: three fingers of his left hand inside himself and right hand wrapped around his cock. He was slippery and sticky and warm inside – must’ve felt so fine for Seunghyun – and his erection was jumping in his fingers. He quickly let go all restraint and let out those little cries and growls he knew Seunghyun loved, and a bare minute after that it was over. Jiyong blinked ‘til his vision cleared and let his whole body go limp. Seunghyun shifted beneath him and smiled wider. But Jiyong still had a bit of work to do.

“I made a mess,” he murmured, tongue darting out to touch his upper lip. “You lie there, lemme clean it up.” He shifted back along his lover’s thighs so his supple frame could arch down far enough to lick his own spilled cum off Seunghyun’s chest like it was an ice cream soda; he was used enough to it that he didn’t care about the taste either way, but Seunghyun had woken up at the sight and was staring at him. Jiyong swiped a finger across his lower lip, sucked on the tip, and swallowed. As a performance it was pretty effective. Then he gave Seunghyun’s stomach a fond stroke and got up to find something he could actually clean with.

“You don’t have to do all that.” Seunghyun attempted to get up and help him: during their affair back at the House Jiyong had made his admirer do all those sorts of things for him. He still liked to be spoiled. But once in a while this could be fun too.

“I told you,” said Jiyong, pushing him back down and wiping him off tenderly, “this is how I do fancy hotels.” He brought over the last of the champagne and fed it to the bigger man from the bottle. When Seunghyun’s lashes began to flutter again in the typical après-sex doze Jiyong rolled him bodily onto his stomach, then sat on his thighs and gave him a massage. Seunghyun groaned happily, like all his bones were turning to jelly. Jiyong kissed his spine, his shoulder-blade, the nape of his neck; finally he wrapped his arms round Seunghyun’s chest and leaned over to reach his lips. 

“…I s’pose,” said Seunghyun in a sleepy voice, “I can put up with some bourgeoisie privilege just _sometimes_.” Jiyong didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he knew what was implied when Seunghyun turned and wrapped him in his embrace: it meant Seunghyun was pacified and happy, and that Jiyong could go to his job tomorrow without any complaints and earn himself even more luxury living.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 29There were still many discriminatory rules in the U.S. at this time that prevented people of colour (at least, ones who weren’t rich) from hobnobbing with white people, and this certainly extended to the regular entertainment world. Segregation was beginning to be relaxed, but it wasn’t until the beginning of the ‘30s that famous venues like New York’s Cotton Club admitted African-American customers and allowed its hugely talented performers like Duke Ellington to even use the same door as the audience.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> This chapter's title song is _'Puttin' On The Ritz'_ by Irving Berlin (1929).  
>  Next chapter: some drama!


	13. Dry Spell Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys find themselves up against another Depression-era problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully an eventful chapter :)  
> Also I just realised we're over halfway through...!

Jiyong and Seunghyun returned to their train compartment just in time for the 1931 big pre-season rehearsal. The winter quarters were in a somber mood, as was the entire circus world, and it wasn’t just the Depression: that February the brightest star ever to hang from any Big Top, Lillian Leitzel, had been killed in a fall from her rope in Europe. It was Millie’s death multiplied by a thousand, the way the whole country mourned. Jiyong, for whom the world-famous aerialist was something of an idol, had been pretty blue; Seunghyun had just looked very thoughtful as he’d rigged his lover’s gear thereafter.

But the show didn’t stand still for anyone, so the two of them unpacked and learned to be cramped again ‘til the train left them for Chicago. They wouldn’t be getting any more hotels before winter: the generous practice of management booking rooms for Big Top acts on Saturday nights had been abandoned after the Crash. Perhaps this was why Tom Mix cut it even finer for the rehearsal than Jiyong, arriving with his Tonys but without his wife.

“I guess it’s not easy for a lady to live on the train,” commiserated Jiyong when he met Tom in the shared bathroom block after the final run-through. You had to get in quick or the hot water’d sputter out and Jiyong was damned if he’d shower in cold.

“Yup, she’ll be stayin’ home with our kid for now. We ain’t exactly on good terms these days.” Tom unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off.

“Why, what happened?” asked the smaller man, already naked and collecting his grooming paraphernalia. Tom tugged the undershirt over his head and Jiyong saw two squares of gauze taped haphazardly to his shoulder-blade and bicep.

“She shot me.” The cowboy gave Jiyong a rueful grin over his shoulder and chuckled at his incredulous expression. “Actually she was shootin’ up my car, but didn’t seem to bother her none when I got in the way.”[30]

“Oh my God! I didn’t see anything in the paper!” Something so juicy oughta be all over the entertainment rags; maybe Leitzel’s death had simply blown it outta the water.

“Just flesh wounds,” said Tom, whose tough-guy movie image obviously wasn’t for show. “My old studio has an ‘arrangement’ with the press so they didn’t report nothin’.” He shrugged. “Anyway they’re almost healed.” Jiyong’s old bullet wound gave a sympathetic twinge.

“But _why_?!” The woman must be crazy, thought Jiyong – as must Tom if he was still married to her. Tom shrugged and looked sheepish.

“Didn’t like who she caught me in bed with.” Jiyong stared at him, then burst out laughing.

“Honestly, what bad luck! Though can’t say I blame her.”

“Yeah, me either,” said the older man as they walked into the shower room. “Guess I shoulda been more discreet.” Jiyong smiled at him and shook his head. He helped Tom wash around the bandages, thinking how daft the whole story was. He wasn’t about to judge either party, he was hardly in a position to do so with _his_ track record; and the antics of the rich and famous worked a treat for taking his mind off his own worries. Soon they were both grinning, and that was when Seunghyun walked in, covered as much as humanly possible with his towel – he always was modest. Seunghyun looked at Jiyong playing nude handmaid for their headliner and sighed. But he refrained from starting any trouble; Jiyong was proud of him, and happy that their relationship was about to start the season stronger than ever before.

 

* * *

 

“How was the ol’ theater circuit?” inquired Timtam once the Chicago run was over and Jiyong and Seunghyun had rejoined the train. “Same old dog-and-pony show? Ah, but you’re entertainin’ the _leaders of society_ , huh?”

“ _Mmm_. Nice hotels.” Jiyong gave Seunghyun a private smile that Timtam saw through instantly. The dwarf snorted. He’d come visiting their compartment just before roll-out to complain that Jiyong’s cavorting around the big cities had cut down on Seunghyun’s bootlegging time, and demanded the older man get back on it pronto. The train had pulled out before he was done scolding so now they were stuck with him ‘til Springfield.

“Bet ya loved it, huh? You show-off. Bet ya couldn’t move for fancy presents.” Timtam peered around hopefully in case the car was full of riches he’d somehow missed.

“Hardly, I only played about three top-tier theaters altogether,” Jiyong told him. “And I’m a nobody.” This time it was Seunghyun’s turn to snort, ‘cos although Jiyong wasn’t exactly swimming in tokens of appreciation he had received _some_ : the odd bouquet of flowers from an admiring lady or gentleman, the occasional invitation for drinks. Seunghyun thought the latter were highly sketchy and Jiyong of course knew exactly what he was being invited to do: he didn’t need Zabbi explaining how to read between the lines. So he’d kept any meetings with theater-goers to the backstage area where there were always other people around. It still put Seunghyun’s hackles up, even the time Jiyong had run into one of the Corporation’s financial backers – some kinda machinery magnate from Georgia who adored the circus and had wanted nothing more than to innocently talk Jiyong’s ear off about the upcoming season. “How’s Gibtown?” Jiyong asked, to make Timtam quit teasing.

“Worried,” said the little man bluntly. “More people down there than ever with no place to go this season – outfits’re layin’ off workers left and right. Just look at us, and we’re the lucky ones!” Jiyong and Seunghyun nodded: it’d been obvious as soon as they’d set up in St. Louis that Sells-Floto was down at least a hundred people from last year, maybe more, and the route was the shortest Jiyong had ever known it. Yuyan and her troupe were gone, half the clowns were gone, as was Tomas the albino magician. They’d acquired a new picture show last season – a tattooed woman named Betty Broadbent – but Jiyong hadn’t seen her around this year. The only sideshow addition seemed to be a strange-looking young lady called Minnie: Jiyong didn’t know what her act was supposed to be, but she traveled with a carer and everyone but the other sideshow performers regarded her with the kind of horrified pity people gave the severely disabled. Jiyong thought she was kinda sweet, but it was hardly enough to make up for the great acts they’d lost. The one consolation was that they still had Tom Mix.

The Corporation had dropped their prices again: the regular seats were only fifty cents, and nowadays the Circus made most of its money on concessions – visitors flocked to buy sticky candy apples and hot dogs. Timtam reckoned it was probably the only bit of sweetness in a diet made sparse and monotonous by the decline in variety and hike in food prices. More and more often when the train passed between people’s gardens Jiyong saw that where there’d once been flowers there were now vegetable patches. And as they traveled west and further from the coastal cities even those squares of green began to vanish. The circus-goers didn’t much decrease, but it seemed everything else had. Seunghyun agreed that the rural route was the worst he’d ever seen it.

Jiyong had known the urban poor all his life, but only in his first Sells-Floto season had he gotten a glimpse of country poverty. He’d been surprised: his image of anyplace outside the cities was of greenery, fat cows and homemade bread and all the milk you could drink. All the city-born kids thought that way ‘cos that was what the ads told ‘em. It wasn’t ‘til their early runs through the Midwest and the South that he’d realized this was as much bullshit as any other story about the American Dream – other than the dream of the Circus. Sure, there were some nice places, but the overwhelming tones of the countryside were always yellow and brown, and at each stop he’d seen kids as skinny and gritty-looking as _he’d_ been back in the day. Every year there’d been more abandoned farms – ‘tractored out’ by new-fangled machinery, said one of the many lanky teenagers who’d tried to hop a ride on the train even before the Crash.

But as the Depression set in deeper nationwide those sights multiplied until they began to haunt Jiyong. It was worse than last year. He found himself almost afraid of pulling in to each new town, where hundreds more men and boys than were needed would flood the lot looking for work setting up the Circus; these days the roustabouts spent as much time keeping things orderly as they did actually laboring, and there were fights and threatened lawsuits every week. There was always some kid trying to hide in the baggage cars, or flitting about the back yard looking for food and maybe someplace to sleep; seeing them would give Jiyong a stomach-ache and he’d end up passing them his dinner as often as not. Seunghyun went one better and actually hired a threadbare high-schooler who’d had to quit her education to try and earn a living; the kid had been a whiz at science, Seunghyun explained, and he could use an assistant for the fireworks. Jiyong knew his Tabi just admired her and felt sorry for her. The girl couldn’t be above sixteen and had run away to earn some cash for her folks. She reminded Jiyong so strongly of himself it almost hurt to look at her.

“Course I don’t mind,” said Jiyong, smiling up at Seunghyun once his lover was done justifying this move. He quit sweeping and leaned on his broom. “It’s sweet of you. And better than her making money on her back.” There’d be no luxurious House for these runaway women – he’d been lucky in comparison. Oh, he could already tell how the Cirkies who didn’t know Seunghyun would see it: that he’d picked up the girl and stashed her in the ladies’ sideshow car as his bit of tail on the side. But no-one who really understood Seunghyun would imagine such a thing.

“I know we’re meant to be saving…” began the older man with a vaguely guilty expression. Jiyong shook his head: Seunghyun’s family was much smaller than his own and mostly self-supporting, he didn’t have to be as careful with his money. He knew Seunghyun had this protective urge that made him think any extra cash oughta be spent on Jiyong, but–

“Ow, get offa me!” Jiyong yelped and shooed a peacock away with his broom; lately he’d been doing extra work helping out in the menagerie – it was a welcome break from the depressing human scenes outside, and mostly the animals were cute. “Bastard!” he added with feeling. Not peacocks, though, peacocks were _mean_.

“You want me to do that?” asked Seunghyun, sounding as if he was about to laugh. At least it’d cheered him up.

“Nah, I’m nearly done.” Jiyong cocked his head. “You don’t need to worry, Tabi, you don’t hafta spoil me. Use your money for something that matters.”

“You like being spoiled,” was his lover’s rejoinder. “I wish I could do it more.”

“No,” said Jiyong, and smiled at him again. He did love to be pampered, but with luck he could get that for himself through hard work and Zabbi. “What _you_ do for me is much more important.”

 

* * *

 

The news coming outta Chicago that spring was enough to make Jiyong feel bad about the semi-luxurious winter he’d spent in hotels, and almost enough to make him wish Seunghyun _would_ help him out financially. No, he couldn’t ask for his Tabi’s money, not unless he was desperate; but the way things were going back home maybe he’d come to that.

“How’re things?” asked Seunghyun as Jiyong refolded his letter and anxiously rubbed his fingers along the crease. Generally speaking the older man was always slightly envious at the regularity of Jiyong’s post – from Dami, Soomin, Daesung, and occasionally even his mother. Lately, though, the contents weren’t exactly cheery.

“Mm. Dami’s husband got his office hours cut,” Jiyong told him. Seunghyun reached out and took his hand to stop him fidgeting, and Jiyong clung to him gratefully. “And my dad’s still not right.” It seemed his father was always unwell these days; Jiyong’s mom said he resented paying for the doctor, but in addition to the leg he’d caught a persistent cough that made him irritable. Jiyong was terribly worried for him, and for the rest of the family that had to put up with him. “Dami says Soomin’s looking for a job – she graduated, remember? – but there’re so many women after secretary posts.” Jiyong pursed his lips. “And it’s dangerous out there.” Chicago had never been what you’d call a safe city; now it was filled with jobless, penniless and desperate people.

“You okay with the money?” Seunghyun inquired carefully. “I could…”

“No, it’s fine, I can send enough to pay the bills for now. Probably.” Jiyong smiled at his lover and squeezed his hand – how sweet his Tabi was. “I’d just feel better if…”

“If you could see them.” Seunghyun’s dark eyes met his, full of a yearning that Jiyong knew was echoed in his own. “I know. We need to go back: to see for ourselves. Or we’re never gonna feel any peace.”

“But how?” said Jiyong, at last understanding how helpless Seunghyun had been all this time, the fervent wish to see his family that couldn’t be fulfilled. The bigger man’s jaw tightened.

“…I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong was feeding the llamas on a gray June morning when Seunghyun burst into the tent, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out away from the startled menagerie men.

“Have you seen the paper?!” demanded the older man, brandishing it at him.

“You know I haven’t, I wait for you to read me it! Tabi, what is it?” Seunghyun slapped the front page.

“Al Capone’s in jail!!”

“You’re kidding. _Again_?” Jiyong snatched the newspaper. It was the _Chicago Daily News_ and it was four days old; Daesung must’ve sent it express through the mail. Jiyong knew the last time Capone was arrested it’d been a strategy of his own making and his time spent in a Philadelphia cell last year hadn’t affected his business or the Outfit in the slightest, so this was probably more of the same. But when he saw the headline his jaw dropped and a bubble of mixed joy and disbelief rose up to fill his chest: ‘ _Capone Gets Eleven Years_ ’. “For what?!” he exclaimed to Seunghyun, knowing he couldn’t read fast enough. “Was there another massacre?”

“Nope.” Seunghyun’s jaw was tight but his big eyes were shining. “ _Tax evasion_.”[31]

“…Oh my God.” Jiyong began to laugh then, hysterically enough for several passing Cirkies to give him a wide berth. He wiped his eyes. “This…this is for real, then?” Seunghyun nodded.

“It was the only way the Feds could get him. He’ll appeal but they reckon it won’t do any good: he’s in for the long haul.” He slung an arm round Jiyong’s shoulders and squeezed him. Jiyong leaned in and exhaled slowly.

“…The Outfit’s gunna be in _chaos_.”

“I know it.”

“You know what else?” Jiyong said. Seunghyun nodded again. “If we’re very careful…and we keep a real low profile…this winter maybe we can finally _go home_.” He could see his lover’s heart leap at the thought, saw his sweet lower lip begin to quiver. Seunghyun had missed his parents so terribly, more and more, and of course Jiyong was dying to see his own family and new nephew. Maybe even… A long-ago image of his father flashed into his head. No, that wasn’t likely, but hadn’t Jiyong cleaned up his act enough that they might…? Too many hopes too soon, he told himself firmly, and instead threw both arms round Seunghyun’s neck and basked in the moment.

“Let’s give it a couple of months,” Seunghyun murmured, holding him hard. “And then decide if it’s safe.” He was never an optimist but Jiyong knew he was being wise in this case, however desperate he was to see home.

“Sure, Tabi. And if it is…” He buried his face gladly in Seunghyun’s shoulder. “I’ll tell Zabbi I can finally work Chicago.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong and Seunghyun tried to keep their hopes in check ‘til they had a more detailed idea of the state of the Outfit and its movements in Chicago. Neither of them mentioned the possibility of coming home in their letters, not yet; Seunghyun just asked Daesung to keep his ears open in the clubs for any gossip. It wasn’t enough to entirely stop their hope blooming: day by day Jiyong’s concern and homesickness strengthened. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that life on the Sells-Floto route was no longer an endless parade of anticipation and exciting new scenes and color. To Jiyong it seemed that this year the only brightness in the world came from the Circus itself; and the further they went, the more he felt drained. He guessed Chicago wouldn’t necessarily be better, but it’d at least be different.

If the Twenties had been roaring, the birth of the Thirties seemed to come with a gasp – followed by a silent will to simply keep breathing. The ravages of the Depression continued as they traveled further inland: unemployment, hunger, and a hope that the Circus would allow an escape for just one night. It was the same in every State they passed through; but nowhere chilled the entire bunch of Cirkies more than the area that was becoming known to its inhabitants as the Dust Bowl.

Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska – Jiyong had never seen anything like it. How could anyone put on a show here? Once they had to ‘wildcat’, Terrell changing the route and skipping a town completely on the advice of the advance men, who said the drought was so bad this season there’d be no place to water the animals and no-one who could pay for a ticket. They’d known for the last few years that it’d been dry all around these States, and that last year’s crop prices had been poor even for the farms blessed with rain; but who could’ve imagined it would end up like this? They didn’t even stop in North or South Dakota. Rolling past in the stuffy heat of the train – they couldn’t open the windows, there was too much flying dirt now when they were moving at speed – Jiyong would see farm after farm diminished or completely abandoned. They looked strange, not simply lonely but as if the landscape surrounding them had been picked up from another world by the wind and slammed down around the houses, half burying them: no more neatly plowed fields but weird hummocks the shape of sand dunes and ripples like the edges of beaches. It was one of the most alien things he had ever seen.

“It’s dust,” said Ed, his horrible voice sounding almost awed as he stared out of the window. Jiyong had invited him to their compartment to get away from the constant noise of the sideshow car; he felt sorry for the man, who ever since his brother’s death seemed to have lost his spark.

“…Why’s it look like that?” asked Jiyong. Ed’s family were farmers.

“Soil’s too dry, not enough rain,” Ed explained in his grating tone. “Grasslands been all tore up by cattle or those huge plows they’re using nowadays. We used to get dust storms back home on the regular on account of the wind[32], but this…” He leaned his bony elbows on the window ledge beside Jiyong and Seunghyun. “…Never seen a thing like this. And for what? Wheat’s worth nothin’ this year.”

“You think everyone’s gunna leave?” There were still people working outside on many of the homesteads; Jiyong didn’t see how they could possibly make a living.

“Nah, not yet,” said Ed. “Farm’s in their blood. Anyway, who’s gonna buy those places? They’re used to being poor: half these States were in a depression even before the Depression.”

“Not enough investment from Washington,” agreed Seunghyun.

“Yup. Fuckin’ Government.”

Jiyong stopped paying attention when the conversation turned political and leaned his chin on his forearms. He saw a girl in a white cotton sundress off in the distance; the flutter of fabric showed the wind was picking up and he watched her run for the house, the dust swirling around her like insects. Jiyong shivered: he couldn’t wait ‘til they reached the cool mountains of Montana.

 

* * *

 

It felt like they would never leave Colorado and they’d only just reached it. Jiyong couldn’t sleep for the heat. The air was dry and Seunghyun and his assistant both developed a cough; Jiyong got worried and nagged ‘til they quit mixing their gunpowder and compounds in the enclosed space of the car and took the kit outside where they could breathe.

“Out here we’re just breathing dirt!” complained Seunghyun.

“Better than whatever the hell chemicals you’re inhaling in there with the door closed,” retorted Jiyong. His temper was getting frayed and he wasn’t the only one; it seemed they’d been in the same place for days ‘cos everywhere looked alike: mountains and brown desert and rocks. Their stops here were few and far between so there wasn’t even a trip to town to break the odd sensation that the train was chugging along on the spot. And the train! It hadn’t been in the best shape even last season, and now every time it made a choking sound he’d meet Seunghyun’s eyes and see his own unease reflected in them: if the engine broke down for real in one of these barren stretches of land who knew what would happen to them? What with the hundreds of humans and large animals aboard they could only carry water for a day at most, and then…

And then it happened. They were midway between the Denver and Colorado Springs stops – only a few hours by train – when the engine failed. Just like last year the engineers went to knock on one of the few farmhouse doors while the whole Circus waited nervously. Yes, they had spare water enough to cool the engine. Only this time it didn’t work. The engineers gathered round and scratched their heads in increasing anxiety, Terrell puffed cigar after cigar into ash until even his red face turned pale, and the train sat there in the blustery late afternoon sunshine. Seunghyun opened the door.

“What’s going on?” he yelled down the line to the sideshow car, which was closer to the engine. The long figure of Sky High emerged halfway, shouted on down to the front, then turned back towards them.

“Gaffer’s sending an agent and engineer on to the Springs!” he called. “They said it needs a new part, can’t get it around here!”

“How?!” demanded Seunghyun, coughing.

“Hiring some farmer to drive ‘em!” Sky High disappeared as a skirl of dirt particles blew against the train. Seunghyun slammed the door.

“…How long’s that gonna take?” he asked. Jiyong just shook his head, eyes wide.

They were gone all night, which given the distance was crazy. It couldn’t be easy to find the part on a Sunday, was Seunghyun’s guess, and the car itself was a rust bucket. They _must_ have reached the springs, he assured Jiyong, for the simple reason that no other train had come up behind the Sells-Floto convoy and smashed them to pieces; they’d probably been diverted to another route. Jiyong didn’t care what the reason for the delay was – the effects would be as bad either way, and by morning they began to show. They were low on water and the limping farms around them could scarcely provide enough for themselves, let alone seven hundred humans and half as many animals. After a long discussion between the car manager and the Boss Hostler they were informed that every healthy man would have to go without for the time being: the animals were worth a lot more money and were much more fragile.

“I don’t mind,” said Jiyong when Seunghyun expressed concern for him – the sun was getting high and the younger man didn’t exactly thrive in extremes of weather. “I can handle it! The animals can’t, they dunno what’s going on, they’ll get sick.” Seunghyun laid a worried hand on his forehead; Jiyong took hold of it and cupped it around his cheek instead, then leaned into the touch. “They’ll be back, Tabi,” he assured him.

By evening his prediction was proved right: the car itself had broken down but they’d eventually fixed it, begged the part from the train depot, and within an hour of their returning the engine was running again. But it hadn’t been quick enough: in the meantime four animals had died. It wasn’t really lack of water, the menagerie men said later. It was confinement and heat, and most of all stress. When Jiyong heard one of the victims was the round little pony he’d watched Gough carry so long ago, he cried. Seunghyun held him as they raced on toward Colorado Springs; but nothing would console him now other than leaving this wasteland behind.

 

* * *

 

They’d be out of it by the time they got to Boulder, said the rubes who’d come along to the lot on the outskirts of town. It was the east and the Southern Plains that were hardest hit, if they kept going north things would get better. Everyone sighed with relief, but even so it was a kinda subdued company that set up in the dry lot that’d once been pasture. Terrell gave everyone an extra-strict warning about fire hazards – a circus’s worst nightmare – and when the water trucks arrived from town he had buckets set up everywhere: the stalks would be trodden down into earth by the time they rolled out, but ‘til then a cigarette dropped carelessly near a tent might spark an inferno.

The matinée went smoothly, with as many seats filled as one could expect in these times. Jiyong was still sad, still a little tearful, but the performance raised his energy levels enough to take a walk round the Midway with Seunghyun. The older man was so sweet to him that afternoon: buying him candy and lemonade, winning a prize for him on the ring-toss stall. Together they watched the enjoyment and arguments of the townspeople; Seunghyun gave his own candy to a skinny little girl he’d noticed picking the pocket of a comfortably fat rube in a nice suit. Jiyong had noted that his lover was developing a pretty wide anti-Establishment streak since the Crash. Still, the gesture made him smile.

“Be careful with those fireworks, Tabi,” instructed Jiyong as he jogged outta Ring Three through the back door tunnel and met Seunghyun coming the other way.

“Don’t worry.” The older man patted the pocket where he kept his long matches. “I’ve got everything under control.” He bent to kiss Jiyong quickly on the lips; when he straightened up Jiyong saw the high-school assistant blushing, and wondered if she was uncomfortable with the morals of the world she’d entered into. Well, it was good for her to see that love was love, even between a kinker and a tech. Jiyong shot Seunghyun another smile and trotted on to take a break before he changed for his aftershow number with Tom.

He was just slipping off his jacket when he felt a change in the air around him. He glanced up and saw the canvas sidewalls of the dressing room tent suddenly billowing, the poles swaying. The noise from the Big Top was too loud to hear them creaking. Jiyong wasn’t alarmed, he was used to windy days and the tents were well anchored. It was only when he noticed the veteran kinkers like Cliff the Cannonball beginning to look around that he got to feeling odd. But then the canvas slackened, the poles returned to their upright position, and Jiyong settled down.

“…What is that?” said Cliff thirty seconds later. Everyone stopped, kinkers and Wardrobe assistants straining their ears to hear over the brass band. The first thing they caught was emptiness where there oughta be applause and laughter; but quickly filling that gap, beneath the music, Jiyong’s excellent hearing picked up a low, hissing hum. It was like a giant snake or a swarm of bees; then, as if the snake had exhaled, a gust of wind smashed into the tent and laid the poles over almost forty-five degrees, thrumming the guy-ropes like guitar strings. The sound grew higher and began to buzz ‘til it was almost a shriek.

“ _Dust storm_!” someone yelled over the rising din, and a group of frightened rubes burst into the dressing room. In the ensuing hubbub Jiyong could just hear the Big Top band playing the first few bars of the Sousa – _The_ _Stars and Stripes Forever_ – the one tune Jiyong had never heard them play in his five years with the Circus: the Disaster March.

“ _Fuck_!” cursed a high-wire artist beside him as the wind roared so loudly the band was drowned out. “It’s a blowdown!!” The hairs on the nape of Jiyong’s neck stood on end as beneath the buzzing and the flapping of canvas he heard the faint sounds of screaming.

“Train?” suggested Cliff, for once looking like a daredevil instead of a comedian. The high-wire walker seemed indecisive; Jiyong felt the pulse in his wrists speed up.

“Too far!” shouted the most composed of the rubes. “It’ll be on us in seconds!”

“Then we hunker down here and hope the Big Top shelters us from the worst of it,” said the German, taking Jiyong firmly by the arm to maneuver him under a dressing table as the other male performers dove for cover.

“Yeah,” said the rube ominously, “if the Big Top holds…” His voice was obliterated as another gust hit, this one wickeder and more sustained; the man and his companions, who looked like ranch workers, jumped for the canvas flap that acted as a door and stretched it across to lace it closed. The next second it was ripped from their hands, and from under his table Jiyong saw that beyond the doorway was wind and lashing ropes, and where there oughta be the setting sun a tower of what looked like black fog – only it contorted and hissed like that gigantic snake. As he watched open-mouthed it rolled with dreamlike speed towards the Big Top and swallowed it whole. He saw Cliff’s eyes widen at the sight, and there was the Cannonball fighting the canvas door, finally tying it closed with desperate knots.

Then the storm was on them, obliterating every one of Jiyong’s senses in sound as the lights went out: he barely noticed the dust and dirt that pummeled through the cracks and scraped at his skin and clothes, or the frantic shaking of the tent around him, or the men who’d crawled beneath whatever they could find and were riding it out with as much terror as himself. All he could think of beyond the apocalyptic noise was _Seunghyun_.

He didn’t know how long it lasted – ten minutes, an hour? Ed had spoken of dust storms as a regular occurrence but he couldn’t have meant _anything_ like this. As the wind finally slackened Jiyong uncurled himself from his fetal position to find his protecting hands raw and scraped all over. When he raised his head he saw his companions starting to move: they looked like clay statues come to life, they were so covered in dirt.

“…Holy hell,” said one of the farmers once he’d spat out a mouthful, “that was a bad ‘un.”

“I gotta find my Pop!” exclaimed another, staggering upright and tugging at the tent laces; it was too dark to see anything, the lamps and bulbs as covered with dust as the rest of them, and Jiyong was sure he was just making it worse. Outside the dressing room he could at last hear other people again, shouts and orders and searching cries. He had to get out there, had to see what’d happened to the Big Top, where Seunghyun had been preparing for his light show.

“Out the way,” he said breathlessly, groping a path towards the door. “I got a knife.” He carried the pocket knife all the time now – ever since Gough it’d become a kind of talisman; please God it would bring him luck tonight! When he located the ropes he sliced through them and found an ordinary cloudy sky above a high wind, and dusk slipping into night. Far away he could see the passenger and Circus trains lit up like beacons as their dust-covered doors were flung open to illuminate the way, but the lot itself was just a dim collection of shapes and running bodies. He dashed out, squinting upward to find the peak of the Big Top: it was there! He started to sigh, then stopped: surely it was the wrong shape.

“ _Seunghyun_!!” he yelled into the darkness, and of course got no answer.

“Here,” said Cliff, who’d been rummaging around in his fallen dressing case. “Flashlight.” He pressed a metal tube into Jiyong’s hand. The younger man fumbled it on and aimed it at the massive tent; the beam wasn’t too strong, but to his shock it showed him that although the near end of the Big Top – the back door, Clown Alley, and up to Center Ring – seemed intact, the far end from which the storm had come was a crumpled silhouette of poles and canvas: it had collapsed. He ran forward, shoving past workers and customers streaming the other way.

“Seunghyun…!” The back door tunnel was chaos: escaping crowds, people searching for their friends, liberty horses trying not to panic. Jiyong fought his way through and emerged in the vast space of the Big Top. Like everything else it was covered with a fine layer of dust, the bark chippings that cushioned the floor now gray. He ran across to Center Ring, waving the flashlight around, and almost cried with relief when its beam revealed no motionless bodies. A young man with what looked like a broken ankle hopped along, while another helped a girl who’d been knocked down from the stands. Jiyong stood and stared into the billows of canvas and cracked poles that covered Ring One; the wreckage stirred in the wind like it was alive. “Tabi!!” he yelled.

“Ain’t no-one under there!” called the boy with the injured foot. “We know when a dust storm’s comin’, those folks all legged it this way soon as we raised the shout.”

“…You’re sure?” said Jiyong in a wobbly voice. Every time he called and Seunghyun didn’t answer him a tightening in his chest made it increasingly difficult to draw breath. The boy nodded and hobbled on. Jiyong swore to himself, dashed past him and out of the back door to race round the Big Top toward the rest of the lot.

“Careful!” yelled someone, a strong hand grabbing his arm – sounded like a roustabout. “Menagerie’s half blown down, escapees everywhere – bulls, the works!”

“Not the cats?!” Jiyong demanded with a primal thrill of terror left over from when his ancestors were living in caves. The lions, tigers and jaguars were kept in securely barred wagons when not in the cat car but if one of them got loose…! Who could blame it for enjoying its freedom by ripping up the first human it saw?

“Dunno, it’s fuckin’ bedlam!” shouted the roustabout. “But the gaffer found one of the lion tamers so they’re goin’ to check. You better come help round up the elephants and things, they went off toward those farms.”

“I can’t!” Jiyong told him. He wrenched his arm free and ran for the back yard, ignoring the man’s curses and his own fright – the only fear that counted was what had become of Seunghyun. He dashed from tent to collapsed tent in the darkness, finding the odd groaning person clambering to safety or being shocked by an occasional chimpanzee or miniature pony that’d taken refuge under whatever canvas was still standing. He found a small fire trying to spread to a patch of grass and stamped it out. He called and called ‘til his voice was hoarse and his vocal chords burning, tears washing two clean rivers down his grimy face. He knew he was being stupid, irrational, there was no reason to think Seunghyun hadn’t escaped the Big Top with everyone else – but reason had no part in this and he was scared beyond anything he’d ever felt in his life.

“ _Seunghyun_!” he screamed in someone else’s voice – he sounded crazy, he sounded like Ed. Suddenly somebody was grabbing at him from below; Jiyong aimed his flashlight wildly, almost knocking out Minnie, the strange new sideshow girl. She blinked at him, her odd face not looking afraid or offended, and grasped his hand to tug at it. “I need to find my friend,” he told her tearfully. “Lemme get someone to look after you.” He didn’t actually know if Minnie could speak – he’d never heard her – or even if she could understand him. He glared around for anyone who could take charge of her, but there was only a llama covered in dust like a fluffy gray cloud watching them. Minnie pulled a face at him and yanked at his hand again, toddling off in the direction of the dressing room tent. “I just came from there,” Jiyong said pleadingly. The young woman made a sound very like a sigh, said something he couldn’t catch, and led him onward.

“There you are, thank Christ!” came a very cross and worried voice from the darkness. Jiyong sped up as he recognized Edgar, still in full clown gear. The older man took Minnie’s other hand and honked his red nose at her; she laughed.

“…I need to find Seunghun!” Jiyong yelled at him, and burst into tears. “Can you…can you hang on to her?” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and said through his sobs: “I’m so scared he’s…”

“For fuck’s sake,” Edgar snapped, taking the torch off him before he blinded someone. “She knows what you’re lookin’ for!” He pointed with the flashlight. “He’s over there, ya daft fairy, lookin’ for _you_.” The beam of light hit a tall figure as it exited the dressing room, and Jiyong cried out. Seunghyun’s head snapped toward the sound and then Jiyong was running, falling over guy-ropes and stray animals ‘til Seunghyun caught him and lifted him off his feet, folding him close. Jiyong breathed in the smell of him beneath the steel of nervous sweat and the never-ending dust.

“Tabi…” he murmured into the bigger man’s shoulder, clinging to him so hard every muscle hurt.

“It’s all right,” Seunghyun told him in a grateful mutter. “I’m okay, you’re safe, you’re _safe_ , thank God!”

“…Is everyone else?” asked Jiyong when he came back to himself enough to think straight. He tipped his head back to look up at him but didn’t let go. Seunghyun’s temple was black with blood in the dim light; he didn’t even seem to notice.

“I dunno.” Seunghyun kissed him, not sexual but filled with the passion of just-past peril, and took hold of his questing fingers to still them. “It’s fine, it’s just a cut. We won’t know for sure ‘til morning, but the rubes seem okay apart from injuries – it’s hard to tell with so many thousands of them. The cops and fire trucks are on their way to help find out. And _we_ gotta go help round up whatever’s left of the menagerie.”

“…You could’ve _died_ ,” Jiyong reminded him, sniffling. He didn’t want to go hunting for elephants; he wanted nothing but to feel the warmth and solidity of Seunghyun’s body against his own. “And you need to see a medic!”

“Yeah, well,” said Seunghyun, his voice high on adrenaline. “You’re the kinker, and you know what they say: the show must go on.”

 

* * *

 

They canceled the three dates left in the sixteenth week of their run. Everyone was unhappy that they’d miss such a chunk of income but there was really nothing else for it, the damage done by the storm was so severe. They hadn’t had a real blowdown for years and years, said Timtam, who’d taken refuge with his colleagues under the jaguar wagon; happily he’d been too drunk to be scared of the cats getting out.

When dawn broke everyone who’d returned from elephant roundup stood with a crowd of town gawks and stared in awe at the mess: the whole Midway end of the Big Top was collapsed, ticket booths and concession stands crushed. The sixty-foot king pole in the center of the tent had held, thank God, but those at the far end had toppled, some ripping through the thick canvas to poke out like broken bones. The canvasmen began clearing as soon as it was light with the help of the elephants who weren’t missing, but the Big Top weighed tons and tons and it’d take some time before they knew if the poles had snapped. All the tents that hadn’t been sheltered from the wind by the bulk of the Top were down, at least partly: sideshow, stables, offices, cooch show.

The menagerie had been hit worst. Having half the animals escape was inconvenient enough – there were still six elephants on the run – but that was better than the bodies that littered the tent once the canvasmen had raised its roof. Jiyong took one look and turned away, hiding his face in Seunghyun’s neck. He stood there a while, swallowing back tears, then steeled himself – this was his life now, this was his _job_. With the older man at his elbow he followed the menagerie workers inside. Several of the animals were injured; Terrell had already summoned a vet from town but Jiyong could see that in some cases there’d be nothing they could do: unlike the audience the animals had been shut into pens, and those that couldn’t jump or kick their way out had had no place to run.

He helped where he could, carrying out any live animal light enough for him to lift and brushing them free of dirt so the experts could check them and take them back to the train. Gough was there too, doing the heavy lifting; Jiyong didn’t make eye contact, and even Seunghyun managed to tolerate him today. When they were done the only creatures left were fallen ones: crushed by collapsing poles and canvas or lying on the ground in the open where they’d escaped, panicked, and expired of fright or suffocation in the dust.

“C’mon,” said Seunghyun gently as a roustabout backed up a truck and the menagerie men grimly began collecting the bodies. “Time for a wash and a drink. Then you’re going to bed.” He led Jiyong through the flattened back yard towards the train. A short distance away he saw one of the star bareback riders crying, and knew her horse must be dead. Thank God three of the Tonys had been stabled on the train last night, with the other two waiting patiently beyond the safe end of the Big Top! Even their perfect training hadn’t been enough to stop them bolting, Tom had told him a few hours ago as they located one of the elephants together; but they’d come back right enough, black with dirt but alive and well.

“…You think we can carry on after this?” Jiyong asked Seunghyun weakly as they picked their way up to the train.

“Course we can.” One of Edgar’s brothers came up beside them, battling a resistant zebra in a rope halter. “It’s gonna be hard; but the gaffer won’t let this outfit fold.” He gave Jiyong a wry grin and marched the animal onward. “He doesn’t like to lose!”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong thought the dust would never come out. It got into everything, even the train. Every time he looked at the scrapes on his hands and his colleagues’ faces it reminded him of that night and the fear he’d felt. Was this what lay in store for the people who had to keep living in that desert?

“Never saw a blowdown like it,” announced Timtam once the engine had been unclogged and they were running from the scene. He sounded sober despite having drunk a third of a whiskey bottle. “Never saw _anythin’_ like it.”

“Hold still,” said Jiyong. He smoothed some cotton and a piece of sticking plaster across the smaller man’s nose, which had received a wicked bump when he’d thrown himself under the jaguar wagon. Timtam grumbled at him. Jiyong ignored him and moved on to Seunghyun; the cut on his scalp had stopped bleeding ages ago but he kept coughing and his perfect face was raw and stinging from the blown dirt, just like the five or so sideshow acts currently squashed into Jiyong’s compartment. Ezra was there too, and Seunghyun’s new sidekick Jenny, all with their own injuries. Jiyong’s was the only sink that even kinda worked right now so he was cleaning them up and playing nurse. It was the one thing that stopped him feeling completely helpless: last night had brought home to him that there was nothing any of them could do against such overwhelming forces, whether it was the Depression or the terrifying power of the natural world that seemed just as eager to see them ruined.

He felt a little better as they traveled through Wyoming, where they began to see signs of normal life again. Nevertheless, it was a dusty and limping company that stopped for those two shows. As they crossed into Montana, however, Jiyong felt the Circus take a collective cleansing breath. Maybe it was the fact that it rained the first day they were there, which would usually have ‘em complaining about low turnout. This time even the outside workers were smiling; Jiyong thought it was one of the most delicious things he’d ever smelled.

They arrived in Great Falls at the beginning of August. The sun had come out again but it was warm and balmy compared to the oppressive dry heat of Nebraska. Terrell did some shuffling and had them put on the matinée early, and as soon as it was over everyone dispersed for an afternoon of rest. Timtam immediately lay down in the grass with a bottle and his blonde lady friend, while Tom Mix lent out Tonys Two through Five to the top equestriennes and set off for a gallop. Jiyong declined the cowboy’s invitation and left him singing Son House’s apt hit ‘ _Dry Spell Blues_ ’ as he rode Tony No.1 away. He simply wanted to be with Seunghyun.

“It’s beautiful,” said the bigger man softly as they stood looking down a green slope at the river below the brand-new Dam. The water glimmered blue in the sunlight, running peacefully in front of them after its invigorating roar through the Dam upstream.

“I wanna go in!” Jiyong told him. It reminded him of the time Seunghyun had taken him driving years ago, back at the House: they’d lain by a river and the older man had helped him forget his woes for one perfect afternoon. Seunghyun had always been the one to do that.

“Not here. The guy who gave me directions says there’s a huge undertow, we gotta walk a way.” Jiyong nodded – he wasn’t about to fuck around with nature right now – and took his hand, the skin on his fingers still tingling and tender. Seunghyun shouldered his bag and they strolled downriver for a while, listening to the foreign birdcalls. It was hilly country but not barren, grasses and cacti all around; the sight of all that life energized the both of them and soon Seunghyun was striding along in spite of his lingering cough. “Here,” he said at last, and pointed Jiyong to a small pond that steamed gently in the sun. Jiyong gingerly poked a finger in.

“It’s so warm!”

“Hot spring,” said Seunghyun in satisfaction, as if he’d personally created it as a gift for his beloved. “They say it’s medicinal; could be a load of nonsense but it oughta feel nice.” Jiyong gave the water an uncertain glance – he’d heard of such things but they’d never had a chance to visit one before. He ate an apple while he thought it over. Seunghyun glanced around like the prude he was then began to strip, and Jiyong quit worrying about the water: he hardly ever got to see the older man naked in the daylight but boy, was it worth it! Seunghyun was bruised across his shoulder and chest from whatever had fallen on him and given him that cut; he still looked like a sculpture outta an art museum, one that’d come to life: the breeze blew through his hair and made the scrapes on his face glow pink. Jiyong looked with pleasure at his long legs, the strong and elegant line of his back between his shoulder-blades.

“Whoa there,” he ordered when Seunghyun made a dash for the pool. “Just stay right where you are!” He finished his apple and enjoyed the view while his lover fidgeted, then nodded toward the spring. Seunghyun stuck a toe in, smiled, and waded in to vanish up to his neck. “How is it?” the younger man enquired.

“Like something fat cats pay a lot of money for.” Seunghyun raised a dripping hand and held it out to him.

“Is it deep?”

“Nah, I’m sitting down.”

“What’m I gunna be treading on?” asked Jiyong suspiciously as he took his clothes off and folded them neatly.

“Rock, sand, mud. Come on, it’ll help you relax.” Jiyong approached the bank, grass cool beneath his feet. The water when he stepped in was warm as a bath and smelled of minerals and the ingredients Seunghyun used in his fireworks. He wrinkled his nose. “Come sit here,” suggested Seunghyun with another, lazier smile. Jiyong waded carefully across to him and crouched down. As the older man put an arm round him he told his muscles to relax – felt like he’d been holding the tension in his shoulders since they’d entered the Dust Bowl. Not to mention the dirt in his hair and ears that seemed to remain there no matter how often he washed, and the constant feeling of _gray_ that hung about them all.

“…It’s nice,” he admitted after a few minutes’ not speaking. The wide sounds of the countryside and the small lap of water as Seunghyun shifted were soothing on his frayed nerves. Seunghyun got round behind him and started to rub the stiff muscles in his neck, fingers callused but gentle on his tattooed skin. Jiyong gave a little hum of approval. With more patience than technique the bigger man worked at the kinks in his shoulders and back and the warmth of the pool drew out his aches. When Jiyong’s head began to loll he dipped it back to wet his hair and face, then turned and climbed into Seunghyun’s lap.

“Tomorrow you’re going to the doctor,” he told him; he didn’t like that cough even if it _was_ only dust. It reminded him of and made him fret about his dad: tuberculosis was still a huge problem nationwide and he wanted his loved ones checked out and given the all-clear.

“It’s better than it was,” Seunghyun assured him. “Jenny’s too. It’s just ‘cos of the dirt and because we were making up fireworks with the door shut, like you said.”

“You heard me,” said Jiyong, and prodded him in the chest. “You’re going, both of you.” He brushed the hair back from that handsome face and gave him a no-nonsense look.

“Ow,” said Seunghyun mildly as his lover bathed the scratches on his face and examined the cut on his head.

“You better not get that wet,” Jiyong warned him. The water might be good for tired muscles but he didn’t trust it on a healing wound. Seunghyun grunted and leaned back against the bank while Jiyong washed behind his ears like he was a kid. At last, when Jiyong felt that every speck of dust had been cleaned away, he wrapped both arms around Seunghyun’s neck and rested his weight on him. The older man’s hands were strong and steadying on his back.

Jiyong didn’t try to initiate anything; it didn’t seem like the right moment. This was the first bit of peace he’d felt for many weeks, the first time they’d been allowed to wash themselves free of the miserable sights this season was determined to show them. He just tucked his face into Seunghyun’s neck and inhaled the scent of him.

“It won’t last forever,” Seunghyun murmured, the words a comforting burr in his ear. “It can’t.” Jiyong knew his Tabi didn’t necessarily believe that; still, it was sweet that he’d say it. “Even if it does,” the bigger man continued, “we’re strong enough. Right?”

“Right,” whispered Jiyong, ‘cos that he _did_ believe. “Just three months left of the season; and then Chicago!”

“Yes, at last.” Seunghyun held him tighter, a shiver of anticipation in his skin. " _Home_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 30Tom Mix’s fourth wife was one of his cowgirl co-stars, Victoria Forde. She caught him in a ménage à trois with two sex workers and proceeded to shoot up his Duesenberg with two Colt .38s, and she got him twice when he ran out to stop her. They divorced in 1932 and the whole incident was covered up by Fox Studios (https://americanhandgunner.com/handguns/the-day-tom-mix-didnt-die-2/). No idea if he learned his lesson, but his fifth wife at least didn’t divorce him ^^;[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 31Capone was finally nabbed by the Feds through his brother’s dodgy practices and shoddy book-keeping (a theme that might pop up again later…), which gave them the excuse to arrest him. He spent the rest of 1931 in jail working on his appeal, but it failed and he was finally sent to Atlanta Penitentiary in May 1932. The story of the Prohi who brought him down, Elliot Ness, and his famous team ‘the Untouchables’ is told in various films and TV shows of the same title.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 321931 began a terrible 7-year drought for this region, though actually the dust storms didn’t get to their worst ‘til about 1933; but it was already bad in some places and a huge part of this historical period so I’ve put it in. There’s a great PBS documentary by the famous Ken Burns called _‘The Dust Bowl’_ (2012) that does an excellent job explaining why it happened and what it was like. It has some amazing film and photos from the time, including chilling footage of the **[vast dust clouds rolling in](https://i.imgur.com/Sg7pGos.jpg)** (think _Mad Max Fury Road_ style).[return to text]  
> 
> 
> The title song for this chapter is _'Dry Spell Blues'_ , performed by Son House in 1930. It became pretty famous as an anthem for the drought and the Depression.


	14. Walkin' My Baby Back Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys make a long-overdue trip and enjoy some domestic felicity :)

“Zabbi!” exclaimed Jiyong when he left the Big Top at Austin and found a red-headed figure awaiting him in an eye-popping suit. “How’d you get all the way out here?”

“The new Northeast,” said Zabbi smugly. Jiyong tried not to look too impressed at the idea of his own manager being well-off enough to _fly_ out to meet him. “I was dealing with a client in New Orleans,” the older man explained, just in case Jiyong thought he’d taken an airplane for _him_. “So I thought I’d run across. I’ve got a couple of designs for your promotional bills, why don’t we look ‘em over?”

“Posters!” Jiyong beamed at him; he’d never had a poster all to himself before – he must’ve made a good impression last year, Zabbi was really doing this properly now. They strolled over to the agent’s tent while Jiyong did his best to appear professional and as if _of course_ he’d known his manager would provide all these things. Zabbi unrolled the colored sketches on the table.

“Wanted your approval before I get ‘em printed up. What d’you think?” Jiyong looked at them and thought they were peachy: bold and bright, with the expected ‘Far East’ aesthetics and lettering. They didn’t give his name, instead labeling him ‘the Little Dragon of Sells-Floto fame!’ before touting the acrobatic beauty of his act. There were three designs; each had a drawing of his small figure engaged in a dangerous-looking move, as well as a close-up picture of his face. That was what made him pause: the portraits had obviously been copied from the promotional photographs and were skillfully done. _Too_ skillful. “Nice, don’t you think?” said Zabbi encouragingly. “We’ll add the details for each city and the dates later.”

“Hmm. Can you make ‘em more stylized?” Jiyong asked, looking critically at the sketches.

“You mean more modern?” He shrugged, carefully nonchalant.

“I just don’t want it to look _too_ much like me.” His manager glanced at him in obvious surprise; he must be unused to entertainers wanting to be _less_ visible – changing a name was one thing, hiding your marketable face quite another. “I mean,” continued Jiyong, thinking as fast as ever he could, “I want it to be _timeless_ : so folks in fifty years will admire it and not be thinking ‘oh, that’s twenty-six-year-old Jiyong alright’.”

“Uh-huh. And this wouldn’t have anything to do with you agreeing to work Chicago, would it?” Jiyong pursed his lips. “Hey, you don’t haveta tell me anything,” said Zabbi quickly. “Stylized is fine, I’ll have them done more Deco.” He nudged Jiyong and flashed him a grin. “Just let me know if you’re on the Most Wanted list or something!”

“…No,” said Jiyong. Not anymore, he didn’t think. Seunghyun had asked Daesung to keep his ears open in the jazz dives for any rumors involving the Chicago Outfit. The news was more encouraging each time: with Capone imprisoned the Outfit was a complete mess, said Daesung; even without the gossip flying it was easy to tell by how the speakeasies on the South Side were being run. Capone had tried to keep things together from the slammer but the North Side Gang was taking full advantage of the chaos to harass the Outfit at every turn. Other key members had been locked up, including the guy who was pegged to be the next leader, Frank Nitti. So right now the Outfit had no organization at all.

Cautiously, Jiyong had asked Daesung to listen out for anything about McGurn – while a less dangerous threat than Capone he was plenty psychotic and still running free-range around Chicago. Apparently that’d been easy: with the Green Mill being such a prominent club there was constant gossip about its owner. McGurn had stepped down, they said, he’d had to: after screwing up the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre the Chicago Crime Commission had put him high on their new Public Enemies list, and after _that_ no-one in the Outfit wanted anything to do with him. Abandoned by the more sensible mobsters he’d retired with his blonde bombshell girlfriend – Jiyong snorted at that, what a type the man had! – and was now playing professional golf[33], of all things. Jiyong and Seunghyun therefore reckoned it was worth taking the risk: they were both _dying_ to see their families.

“All right,” said Zabbi, with another sidelong look at him. Jiyong smiled: it’d be okay, he just had to take care. Besides, if he backed out now it might break Seunghyun’s heart.

 

* * *

 

The last show of the season and the home run had Seunghyun so antsy and excited that Jiyong knew nothing would calm him ‘til he was in his mother’s house. The younger man was nervously looking forward to Chicago with him: there’d be pure pleasure, like seeing his mom and sisters, and of course his new nephew and Daesung. The shows there oughta be a thrill, too; Jiyong was higher up the billing than last year and he’d have plenty of time to warm up his act in New York and Boston first. Zabbi had got him a few different spots in his hometown, one being the huge Auditorium Theatre. That made him kinda anxious: on one hand it was a beautiful, prestigious venue; on the other it was the site of his many opera trips with Mr. Insull, not to mention several of Jiyong’s old tricks. The Chicago Opera had moved over to a brand new building in the Loop – built by Jiyong’s former keeper, no less – but the Auditorium was still a bit too close in the younger man’s memories for comfort. Still, at least Mr. Insull had no ties to it anymore.

Jiyong’s other concerns regarding Chicago included some sensible caution about staying outta the Mob’s path, and a longing to maybe see his own father again. He knew that was most likely wishful thinking; Seunghyun’s homesickness must be rubbing off on him, or perhaps it was the mood of the Circus as it broke up for the winter: many kinkers were afraid they’d have their contracts canceled or that the Corporation might shut down Sells-Floto altogether if they hadn’t made enough profit this season. Everyone was gritting their teeth and crossing their fingers for some new backers – but who’d spend their precious thousands on a circus in _these_ dark times? That was what Timtam said, anyway. With such cheering words the dwarf waved Jiyong goodbye ‘til March. And there was one more bit of unwelcome news.

“I ain’t gonna be able to join you folks next season,” Tom told him when the younger man came to say take his leave. Jiyong’s heart sank – not ‘cos he thought his act wasn’t popular enough on its own but because he truly liked the cowboy and the fun they’d had together. Fame or not, Tom had always been kind.

“Not really?! But _why_?” he asked sadly. Tom shrugged and Tony No.1 snorted vaguely, nuzzling at Jiyong’s chest ‘til the younger man put both arms round his neck and scratched his mane the way he liked it.

“I don’t care to say it, son, but I dunno how much longer this outfit can hold on, the way finances are goin’. Whole Corporation’s on shaky ground – they got better things they could be spendin’ their ten grand a week on, and I told ‘em so.” So he _did_ make that much, thought Jiyong, whose own top earnings in the House had never reached that even in a marathon week. Why would he give it up?! No-one was _that_ selfless.

“But…”

“Anyway,” continued Tom, slinging an arm around Jiyong’s neck in turn, “me an’ my beauties are headed back to Hollywood – I’m gettin’ a divorce and joinin’ the movies again. Been asked to make a talkie.”[34]

“Oh, wow!!” That made more sense: Jiyong couldn’t even imagine what someone of Tom’s stature would be paid per picture. He was born for the silver screen. “I can’t wait to see ‘em,” he told him. Tom grinned that lazy grin.

“Well, now, you can come out an’ visit me on set sometime. And come winter if you’re down in L.A. for your shows I’ll have you for a sleepover at the ranch: show ya what real hard ridin’ is!” Jiyong couldn’t help laughing: Seunghyun had been so worried about this guy’s seductive intentions the whole time he’d been with Sells-Floto, and yet the man could utter a sentence-load of innuendo like that and not even know it! Tom gave him a puzzled glance but broke into a chuckle too. “Ah, you’re a good kid – you’re gonna do well.”

“I hope so,” said Jiyong. He reached up to stroke Tony’s nose – he would miss being around the horses as much as he would Tom. “I’m just praying the Circus holds on while I do.”

 

* * *

 

They weren’t going to Chicago first. Jiyong was almost glad of that, he was so nervous of how it would be to see their hometown again, to walk down those familiar streets and feel the years that had passed between the boy he’d been then and the man he was now. He thought it might make him feel his adulthood more than anything else he’d experienced since he left the House, and he couldn’t tell if he welcomed the idea or was afraid of it. Seunghyun, on the other hand, could hardly wait: the dates in New York and Boston and so on were nothing but a roadblock to the older man.

“Be patient, baby,” Jiyong told him in bed, the night they arrived in the first city. “It’ll come soon enough. We’ve waited this long, haven’t we?” He rubbed Seunghyun’s shoulder like he was calming a nervy animal.

“Why didn’t Zabbi book you there first?” groused Seunghyun for about the fifth time. “He agreed when you asked to make the Chicago stop the longest.” Jiyong’s manager had indeed been pretty accommodating: three whole weeks as part of the Auditorium Theater show – quite high up in the lineup, at that – followed by another two at some of the smaller venues on the subway circuit.

“Yeah, he did, so be content.” Seunghyun snorted at that, but captured Jiyong’s arms and wrapped them round himself from behind. “…You wrote your mom and dad, right?” said the smaller man, leaning against his back.

“Last week. I hope it gets to them before I do.” It was always a guess how long the complicated process of pretending to send letters from Korea would take. “I told them the company wants me to consult with Professor Wyeman and some commercial labs so they’re sending me over for a couple of weeks. Only…”

“You’re nervous, huh,” said Jiyong gently.

“Yeah. I dunno how well I can lie to their faces.” Jiyong let his fingers trail over Seunghyun’s chest, not to excite but to reassure him this was all gunna work out.

“They’ll be so happy to see you they won’t even know it.” There was a silence, and the younger man could sense his beloved’s mental wheels turning. “Course they will,” he assured him. “I mean, your mom’s gunna scold you for not coming before but she’ll soon forget it! And your dad…” He sighed to himself; Seunghyun’s father sounded wonderful. “What’s up, Tabi?” he murmured when he got no reply. Seunghyun was quiet a while longer. Then he laid his hand over Jiyong’s like he was afraid his lover would vanish when he spoke.

“…I wish…” His voice turned hoarse. “I want them to meet you.”

“Baby,” said Jiyong affectionately. “Didn’t we decide that’d just cause trouble?” Seunghyun didn’t respond. “I mean, what’re you gunna tell them?” They’d discussed this once or twice over the past few years; Jiyong knew Seunghyun was as proud of being with him as a man could be. He also knew what the world outside the Circus would think of them. How could Seunghyun explain to his upstanding parents that the love of his life was another man, let alone one covered in tattoos, to whom no air of respectability could possibly cling?

“I don’t know,” replied Seunghyun; he didn’t sound hopeful.

“And what if they found out about my past?” Jiyong wasn’t ashamed for himself – he made no apologies for his adolescence or his more recent cooch act – but he was a practical person. “You already said you’re not a good liar. This could turn into something huge, and that’s not why you’re going home: it’s about you and your parents. Me being there could only make trouble! …It’s not that I don’t _want_ them to know you’re mine,” he added, suspecting that Seunghyun’s fragile ego might present that as a reason. “I do! But not at the expense of your relationship.”

“…Ugh.”

“I want you to be _happy_ , Seunghyun,” Jiyong cajoled, kissing his shoulder. “That’s what this trip’s about. And being in Chicago’s gunna be stressful enough. So maybe next year…or the year after…we can think about it. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Seunghyun. Jiyong could feel it in the lean body beside his own, both Seunghyun’s relief and his resentment that he couldn’t simply be honest with his family. They’d grown used to the freedom – or at least the different social values – of the Circus. But they were about to re-enter the real world, and Chicago was as far from Paradise as you could get.

 

* * *

 

The second Jiyong stepped out of second class into the gigantic train shed at Central Station his body knew they were _back_. He didn’t need to look around the Chicago Terminal, he could’ve told it from the smell of the city and the chill wind that swept through it – there was no place else like it in the world. A shiver ran up his spine: cold or apprehension? Seunghyun’s wide-eyed face as he stepped onto the platform after him showed clearly what the older man felt.

“…God,” said Seunghyun under his breath. Jiyong had an overwhelming urge to grope for his hand, but he mustn’t – not anymore; not here. He met Seunghyun’s eyes instead and found the same overload of emotions.

“Well, well, here we are!” announced Zabbi, who’d disembarked first and collared a station porter. The man loaded their cases while Jiyong bundled himself up in his coat and wool scarf; the Windy City in December was no joke. Vividly he remembered being a child here, never warm, never full – before the life-altering encounter he’d had in another cold Chicago station. It felt like a hundred years ago, but at the same time so close he could almost feel the hard surface of the bench he’d sat on while he waited for the Cicero train that had never come.

Zabbi led the way out of the Station. When they left the passenger depot and followed Jiyong’s manager into Roosevelt Road the younger man looked back at the grand building, its thirteen-story clock tower and the swarms of people milling under a dark-gray dusk sky. Near them was the southern end of Grant Park – the first place he’d ever tried to make a move on Seunghyun and been shot down for being mercenary about it. Was Tabi remembering that too? Seunghyun took his arm; perhaps he was. If they walked just a little way, less than an hour, they’d find themselves in front of the House. Jiyong swallowed: his past was inching closer.

“In you get.” Zabbi had commandeered a cab with no trouble and the porter was loading the trunk. The manager tugged his fine-quality wool coat around himself and eyed the groups of men congregated in the alleys between the great buildings with caution. Before he ducked into the taxi Jiyong saw they were everywhere, far more than there’d ever been in his youth: the Depression really had come to Chicago. Zabbi hopped in and shut the door.

On the journey to their hotel – a nicer one than any they’d stayed at this winter, far from the Outfit’s territory and Seunghyun’s parents – Jiyong and Seunghyun stared out of the window, each lost in a steely ocean of memory. There were so many places Jiyong remembered himself in: dashing down that street when he was a kid – he’d probably been stealing groceries – waiting outside that large house for a client, being taken to that nightclub to dance. Everywhere looked fundamentally the same, but it was overlaid with new and troubling sights: people with signs stating their need for a job or their dissatisfaction with Hoover, teenagers grouped together in empty lots, cops on the street, and the now famous breadlines. He was doubly glad his family had moved to a new area, one he’d never set foot in; he would hate to walk down his childhood street and see it looking even more hellish than it’d once been. Hopefully Seunghyun’s home in Andersonville wasn’t quite as bad as _this_.

“How d’you feel?” he asked Seunghyun once they were settled into their narrow suite at the back of the lovely hotel. He climbed into the bubble bath, there was just about room for the two of them if they sat end to end.

“…Scared,” admitted Seunghyun, hugging his knees to his chest to make space. Jiyong stretched his legs out either side of the bigger man and leaned back; no, the taps were too uncomfy. Seunghyun reached forward to grasp his hips and drag him into his lap.

“Yeah.” Jiyong leaned down and kissed him firmly. “Me too. I just dunno quite what of.”

“Take your pick.” He was right, thought Jiyong: whether it was the remnants of the Chicago Outfit or Mr. Insull or the harsh Depression-hit streets, there was plenty to be nervous about encountering. For himself, though, that all seemed kinda secondary – what unnerved him more profoundly was the _nostalgia_. “Still,” Seunghyun went on more comfortably, “at least we can take our time: rehearsal tomorrow morning, and in the afternoon we can do whatever you like.”

“You’re not gunna see your mom and dad?” Jiyong had assumed that their first free day would be reserved just for that.

“Day after, maybe,” muttered Seunghyun. “Let’s get settled into your performance first; I’m gonna be worried enough rigging you in that barn.” So the older man was scared of meeting his parents, was he? Jiyong could understand that – he had a lot of explaining to do to his mother; his poor Tabi had lied so much for him these past five years!

“Sure, baby.” Jiyong shifted closer in his lap and slid both soapy arms around him. “Let’s take things slow.”

 

* * *

 

The Auditorium Theatre was exactly as Jiyong remembered it from the outside: a vast symbol of the Chicago Establishment, its old money and wealth. He’d been here so often, there was no pastime Mr. Insull loved more than the Opera. He was only glad that this time he got to enter through the stage door; if he’d had to walk into that grand foyer in all its scarlet and gold glory he thought the déjà vu might’ve sickened him. It seemed even bigger staring out at it from the stage, but then he was meeting the proprietor and the other performers – more elephants, a ballet and singers and the irreplaceable acrobats – and soon felt better.

“It’s high,” was Seunghyun’s only comment when he climbed back down from setting up Jiyong’s silks. He was sweating a bit, Tabi would never get over his fear of heights.

“More room for stunts,” Jiyong told him happily. He changed into his practice clothes, then met the conductor of the small orchestra, an old man who gave him a look that said he’d rather play for elephants than for someone like Jiyong. Still, who cared so long as the music was right? He rehearsed, got a few shouted pointers from Zabbi, who was sitting in the stalls, and changed back again.

“Right,” said his manager briskly. “You’re on third from the top so no need to be here before one in the afternoon tomorrow. We’ll meet in the hotel lobby after lunch. How about the rest of today, you boys wanna see some of the sights?” They shook their heads mutely. What Jiyong would _love_ to do was go shopping, but he didn’t have any more financial wiggle room than he’d had before. Although maybe it’d be nice to buy a few presents just this once… Zabbi shrugged. “Take care, eh? The streets aren’t the safest these days. See you at the hotel tonight, I expect.”

“…You ready, then?” asked Seunghyun when the redheaded man had whirled off in a cab. Jiyong nodded, his stomach clenching with excitement: they’d planned it last night, called Daesung from the hotel, and everything was arranged. He was finally going to see his family.

 

* * *

 

“Look!” exclaimed Jiyong with interest as the taxi took them rapidly toward Dami’s house in nearby Englewood. Seunghyun looked and raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “We’re coming up on 63rd and Wallace,” said Jiyong. “I never saw it in real life before.”

“Yeah, that’s what’s left of the old Murder Castle,” the very informal cab driver proclaimed; he obligingly slowed down so Jiyong could gawp out the window at the famous killer’s hotel[35]. “Most of it burned down, now it’s just a bookstore.”

“What a ghoul you are,” chided Seunghyun as the younger man stared. “With all your ghosts and nonsense.”

“C’mon, Tabi, this is our history.” Jiyong had no doubt the place _was_ haunted, but he forgot about it soon enough as they drove on into a narrow but reasonably quiet street close to the large Sears building.

“Ninety cents,” said the driver, pulling up outside a small house in a row of identical homes. Seunghyun paid him while Jiyong got out and tried to balance all the gifts in his arms: silk stockings and scent and chocolate for his mother and sisters, Cuban liquor for Daesung and Dami’s husband George, all kinds of wooden toys and circus treats for Bertie. The older man came and helped him, and they walked up the shallow steps to the front door together. Glancing around, Jiyong saw that everyone else in the street was white; he hoped Dami wouldn’t be as isolated here as Seunghyun’s mother had been in Scandinavian Andersonville.

Before either of them could knock on the door it was flung open from inside, and there was Soomin beaming at them. She threw her arms round Jiyong – he couldn’t hug her back, his own arms were too full – and squeezed him.

“We’ve been waiting ages!” she scolded both men. Seunghyun opened his mouth to apologize but Jiyong cut him off.

“Let’s see it, then!” he said. Soomin got off him and displayed her left hand with a grin, and there was her brand new wedding ring. Jiyong experienced a dual sensation of deep happiness and vague melancholy that he’d missed the day itself. He praised it ‘til she hushed him.

“It’s freezing, come on in.” They followed her into Dami’s house. Jiyong was surprised to see that his sister was wearing pants – very modern, she’d never have been allowed if she was still living with their dad. The house was narrow but tidy and warm; they passed through a small parlor that looked too small to hold more than four people. He could hear voices now, laughter: Soomin pushed another door open, and there was a big flagged kitchen crowded with family. Everyone quit talking. Jiyong felt the tears rise against his lashes but he wouldn’t let himself cry, not now! He turned, dumped the gifts into Seunghyun’s waiting arms, and ran to embrace his mother.

The next fifteen minutes were a chaos of greetings and gift-giving and the baby complaining ‘cos he couldn’t handle the excitement. Jiyong knew how he felt, he hadn’t been able to hold back and had been sniffling happily since his mother’s worn hands had cupped his cheeks. Seunghyun had escaped to sit by the kitchen stove with Daesung and George. Dami’s husband looked a tad overwhelmed at the babble of English and Korean, but he’d laboriously greeted Jiyong in that language and hadn’t seemed surprised to see Seunghyun with him. Jiyong gathered Dami had been training him; he seemed a nice guy, laid-back other than the worry lines everyone wore these days. Right now he was making tea while Bertie took a ride on Seunghyun’s back – it was the first time his lover had stopped looking anxious all morning. Jiyong smiled at the sight.

“Have you done your first performance yet?” asked his mom. He shook his head.

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Just think,” said Dami in amusement, “my big brother an artist at the Auditorium! Who’d have pictured it?”

“None of us,” replied Jiyong. Again he was struck by her and Soomin’s refined accents: they really had grown up different from him. He hoped it’d be the same for his nephew – he’d have to make _sure_ it was. From what Seunghyun had told him before, Dami had been a very stylish young lady. He couldn’t see it now: she was everso pretty – in fact she looked like him – but her clothing and hairstyle were quite plain. Probably that was just from having a kid to care for, but if it came from pinching pennies he wanted to do something about it.

“If you need any help,” said Jiyong to her husband later, when they had a minute alone, “y’know, for the baby…childcare or anything…you’ll let me know, won’t you?” George gave him an odd look; Jiyong wasn’t sure what the man knew about his early career – nothing, most likely – but that was a rather cool expression, like Jiyong had just fallen ever so slightly in his estimation.

“Thanks,” said George in his pleasant Texan drawl, “but we’ll be right as rain. Everyone’s gotta tighten their belts these days. It’ll pass.”

“Sure.” Jiyong smiled at him and went back to the kitchen, where Soomin was dishing out cake and his mother was proudly exclaiming that Chicago had been chosen again to host the World’s Fair. George went and sat beside Dami and the baby; he loved them, it was easy to see. It was strange that he’d rejected the offer of help just as easily. Why were ordinary men so _proud_? wondered Jiyong in frustration. He’d never had any problems himself accepting aid from other people when he really needed it, and this wasn’t even for George: it was for Dami and their kid. Jiyong could kinda understand his dad refusing to take his money all these years – it hurt him, but he _did_ see why. This, though, this was pure stubbornness. He’d just have to do it sneakily like he did with his mom and give the money to Dami; women were far more sensible.

He whispered this to Seunghyun, who’d been chatting to Jiyong’s mother. They seemed quite friendly, though to his expert eye the older man had fallen into one of his quiet moods since he’d given the baby back – did he feel out of his depth? It was a lotta family to deal with at once. Jiyong looked around at his mom, and Dami with her husband and Soomin with hers; and here _he_ was with his own beloved: truly family at last, and everyone was accepting it. He slid his arm through his handsome partner’s and leaned against him. His total happiness at this moment was marred only by one thing – that the family wasn’t _quite_ complete. When he caught his mom’s eye he saw she was thinking it too and was sad for him. But there was nothing they could do about it.

“…And I have news,” Daesung was saying excitedly from the other end of the kitchen table. Jiyong pulled himself together and rejoined the party.

“ _More_ news?” He fanned himself exaggeratedly; he saw the new couple was looking enthusiastic and Seunghyun curious. Dami and her husband seemed kinda reserved, which made him think they’d heard it already and weren’t too jazzed about it. Jiyong checked his next sentence, which would’ve been to ask if his younger sister was expecting; Dami wouldn’t be looking like that if so – even Bertie was wearing a glum expression.

“My prof’s starting a big new project.”

“Oh!” said Jiyong, now also concerned. But Daesung obviously hadn’t been let go, his eyes were shining too bright.

“A large study documenting lives in this economic crisis.” Jiyong felt Seunghyun lean forward, interested: the smaller man knew he still had a fondness for academic stuff, and _had_ been worried his Tabi’s intellect was being stifled in the Circus. “They’re collecting government data already but it’s all lists and numbers. The Prof says statistics have no effect on Washington – Hoover doesn’t want to interfere with the economy and numbers won’t change his mind. But tragic stories might, especially if _someone_ feeds ‘em to the national papers. So this study is, you know, anthropological: a bunch of us are heading off round the country and we’re going to talk to people, record their way of life, their stories and so on. Even if it doesn’t help, it’s important.” Seunghyun was nodding, and hadn’t corrected Daesung’s English once: things really _had_ changed. “That we don’t forget – that the generations after us remember.”

Jiyong gave a guilty start as Daesung finished ‘cos he’d _sorta_ stopped listening as soon as he heard the word ‘statistics’; beside him his mother was also looking confused.

“So you’re going too?” he heard Seunghyun ask. Their friend nodded, beaming.

“The Prof says he needs me! He said all the studies so far are documenting _white_ Americans – not ethnic groups, not foreigners, and they’re the ones who have it hardest. We’ll be the first, and he reckons those people will feel more comfortable talking to _me_. So that’s my job.” Soomin was watching her new husband proudly, but Jiyong doubted very much that she was gunna happily pack up Daesung’s suitcase and send him on his way.

“When d’you leave?” he asked bluntly.

“Right after New Year. Plenty of time to come see your show before then!”

“I wasn’t even thinking that!” Jiyong protested. “I just wanted to know: what’s gunna happen to Soomin?” Daesung grinned, his sister grinned.

“I’m going too!” announced Soomin.

“You think I’d dare leave her behind?” said Daesung in a solemn voice. “She’s going to be fine, they’re putting us up in boarding-houses or hotels. Not like we have to sleep in a tent every night!”

“Only sometimes,” added Soomin like she was looking forward to it.

“Hmm,” said Jiyong, who knew plenty of women who slept in tents but who weren’t his baby sister. No wonder Dami had concerns! “And what’re you gunna do while Daesung’s out being nosy?”

“I’ll be part of the team!” Soomin told him. She pointed at a wooden box in the corner. “I’m going to take photographs.” Her face told him she genuinely couldn’t wait.

“She’s like you, Ji,” added Dami resignedly. “Got the adventure bug.” Jiyong couldn’t argue with that, though he was sorely tempted. Then again, wasn’t Chicago as dangerous as any place in the country?

“And when we get down South we can check out the New Orleans clubs! Claire’s really becoming a fan.” Daesung almost wriggled at the thought of all that jazz, and Jiyong finally cracked a smile.

“You better come visit us too,” he ordered. “Hell, bring the whole team – we need as many butts on seats as we can get.”

“Of course we will.” Soomin reached across the table and took her brother’s hand. “They’ll be the best pictures of all!”

 

After dinner and many hours’ talking they finally left Dami’s house. Soomin had taken some practice photographs, seeming particularly interested in Seunghyun: when would she get a portrait of someone so handsome again? she asked. Normally Seunghyun would’ve blushed at that, but he’d seemed kinda distracted. Jiyong found it hard to leave but they all assured him they’d be seeing plenty of each other while he was in town – like when he comped them free tickets to his performance. The day had felt incomplete without his dad; still, he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As soon as they got outside Seunghyun lit a cigarette. Jiyong cadged one off him and they both stood there smoking in the freezing dark while they waited for a cab; they’d agreed not to use the trains or the streetcar when they didn’t have to: even if the Outfit was in a shambles they didn’t wanna invite their notice. Seunghyun was being very quiet. Jiyong tucked his gloved hand through the crook of the bigger man’s elbow and leaned against him.

“What is it, Tabi?” he said softly. Seunghyun took a last determined drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt into the snow.

“…It’s no good,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I’ve _got_ to see my parents tomorrow.” He turned to gaze down into Jiyong’s face. “And you have to come with me.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you _sure_ about this?” asked Jiyong for the tenth time as the doorman hailed them a cab the next morning.

“Yes,” said Seunghyun with that stubborn set to his jaw. He ushered Jiyong into the car, giving the driver the direction quickly as if he might lose his nerve. Jiyong shuffled closer.

“Got your story straight?” It’d been cobbled together last night, something that might make sense to Seunghyun’s parents – with a bit of luck – and they hadn’t had a lotta time to practice. Jiyong really hoped his Tabi wasn’t gunna regret this.

“We’re going through with it,” the older man told him firmly. He’d been like this ever since he’d seen Jiyong’s family so calmly accepting of his presence. “They’re at least going to know you, even if we can’t tell the truth.” Seunghyun’s first dramatic idea had been to turn up at his parents’ house and immediately present Jiyong as his lover and lifelong companion, and damn the consequences. But that was just the heat of the moment; Jiyong had managed to talk him down to a more sensible level, so now they were going as _friends_. Even so, it’d be a challenge.

As they approached the southwest corner of Edgewater Jiyong saw his partner was beginning to look pale and a tiny bit green. Was that apprehension at what was coming, or regret that he’d decided they should take this step? He touched the tips of Seunghyun’s fingers and the bigger man turned to give him a smile; there were so many emotions on that perfect face Jiyong didn’t have time to read them all before the cab pulled up at a comfortable house on Peterson Avenue. Climbing out he could see everso many fair-haired people going about their business in the snow like they were born to it – half of them turned to stare at him.

“Nosy assholes,” said Seunghyun, who looked like he recognized a few of ‘em and didn’t expect a warm welcome.

“You _sure_ you’re sure?” asked Jiyong one last time: Seunghyun’s gloved hands were shaking. He didn’t have to do this, he could send Jiyong back and have his perfect reunion with his family as he’d imagined it. But Seunghyun only nodded.

“Come on.” He marched up to the door and knocked, the wind whipping the sound away. Twenty seconds later it was opened by a small woman, who screamed, instantly latched on to Seunghyun around the waist, and pulled him into a bear hug. “…I told you I was coming, Mom,” said Seunghyun indistinctly. Then Jiyong heard him start crying.

This went on for at least a minute. Jiyong stood freezing to one side and stared at the people passing the house who’d paused to eyeball the scene – neither Seunghyun nor his mother was quiet at expressing their feelings. Seunghyun was still clutching the small woman desperately when a taller figure emerged in the doorway behind them: he was holding a pipe, had graying blonde hair and huge light green eyes that were exact shape if not the same color as his son’s. He was beaming down at Seunghyun and his wife, but was obviously more collected ‘cos he quickly noticed Jiyong.

“Son,” he said, tapping Seunghyun on the shoulder, “do I not get a hello?” Seunghyun’s mom let up on him just long enough for him to embrace his father; they were about the same height and his dad had most likely been even taller in the past – he was stooping slightly now. Swedish, Jiyong recalled: a fabled race of giants. “ _And_ how about introducing us to your companion?” added the older man: Seunghyun’s mom looked like she was about to monopolize him for several more minutes. She finally noticed there was another person on her steps, and blinked.

“Mom, Dad,” said Seunghyun rather breathlessly, disengaging himself to draw Jiyong forward, “this is Kwon Jiyong. He’s…my assistant.” Jiyong shot him a glance ‘cos that hadn’t sounded very convincing; but both parents were looking at him politely.

“Assistant!” exclaimed Seunghyun’s mom in Korean before greeting him formally, gazing proudly at her son all the while; obviously he hadn’t mentioned such a thing in his letters ‘cos they’d only made it up last night.

“He speaks English,” Seunghyun told her. A pause. “…Actually, he’s from Chicago too!” His parents stared at them in astonishment. “Let’s go inside,” said Seunghyun, who was starting to blush suspiciously. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

Seunghyun’s mom led them into the house. It was warm from the wood and coal fires and smelled _good_ : the unmistakable scents of Korean cookery. Jiyong closed his eyes and sniffed in appreciation, it’d been years since he’d encountered those smells. In front of him Seunghyun was looking around, his large eyes damp as he recognized the many familiar objects. They were soon seated by a fireplace in the living-dining room. There was a blue sofa, a blue ombre tablecloth, and a pretty piano in one corner. Everything looked a little worn but very comfortable. Seunghyun made a small sound as he sat down on the sofa, drawn out of him as the sense memories hit.

“Right!” ordered his mother once she’d returned with tea and some small cakes Jiyong didn’t recognize but were maybe Swedish. She fixed her snapping black eyes on her son. “Tell us _everything_.”

That took all morning: Seunghyun began with what he’d been doing and what he was working on in Seoul. He wasn’t a fantastic liar but this story was practiced enough that the older couple bought it. He then explained that Jiyong was a native of Chicago and a friend of Daesung – that was good, Jiyong saw, Tabi’s parents clearly approved of Dae.

“In fact,” said Seunghyun, “Dae’s new wife is Jiyong’s youngest sister!”

“Oh, so your family’s still here!” Seunghyun’s mother exclaimed, for the first time looking away from her son. Jiyong nodded tentatively.

“…My mom and my sisters, yeah.” She peered at him. He tried a smile: he was wearing a high-collared shirt and his hair was long enough at the back to hopefully hide his tattoos. He wanted to at least appear respectable; with any luck she wouldn’t notice the holes from his ear piercings. There wasn’t much he could do about the ink on his fingers, but if he was careful it wouldn’t be that visible.

“So, however did you end up in Korea?”

“After the Crash came,” Seunghyun explained quickly, refocusing her on himself. Jiyong was kinda relieved, she’d been staring at him so hard. Seunghyun’s father was also watching him, his light gaze mild and thoughtful above the pipe smoke. “Jiyong lost his job in an auto garage, so between Dae and me we got him recommended for a place at the Company and we’ve been working together ever since.”

“You’re a scientist too?” his mother asked Jiyong, as if that was highly unlikely.

“No, ma’am.” Jiyong tried to tamp down his South Side accent a tad. “I just help out with the engines and a bit of paperwork.” He hoped he’d never be called upon to demonstrate either.

“They let him come over with me; he wanted to see his family as bad as I had to see _you_ , Mom.” The attention returned to Seunghyun. “And he’s going to take notes and sort out routine documents when I have meetings with the Prof and stuff. Speaking of…” Seunghyun glanced at his watch. “We’ll have to be off soon.” He looked extremely reluctant, but also as if it might be a relief to quit acting. “Maybe Sunday we can spend more time together?” His mother looked like she had half a mind to tie him to the sofa so he couldn’t leave her sight. His dad just nodded and reached out from his wing chair to pat Seunghyun on the shoulder.

“Come whenever you like, son, for as long as you can.”

“You’ll stay the night Sunday!” instructed his mom. Seunghyun nodded meekly, a sweet smile tugging at his mouth. They sat a little longer – it was clear he didn’t want to leave this homey place. But Zabbi would be getting impatient soon and Jiyong had to get his head in the right space for performing; though this was by far the most nerve-wracking performance he’d ever given, the Auditorium was gunna be a cakewalk in comparison!

After many more hugs for Seunghyun and a pleasant handshake for Jiyong from both parents they eventually left the house. Seunghyun sighed as the door closed on them. After a last glance back he took Jiyong’s arm and they walked towards the end of the street in search of a cab. People were staring again but the bigger man didn’t seem to notice.

“You okay, Tabi?” asked Jiyong. Had that gone well? He wasn’t sure. Seunghyun exhaled deeply and nodded.

“There were a few hairy moments…you’re a much better actor than me.”

“I dunno about that, I thought you did pretty good!” Jiyong squeezed his arm, and his lover’s face broke into a beautiful expression, soft and moved and relieved.

“You’ve no idea how good it felt to see them – and to see you with them.” Jiyong waved his gloved hand to try and flag down a passing cab; to their good luck it stopped first go, and he smiled up at Seunghyun. What a fine day it was turning into!

 

* * *

 

The day continued well: Jiyong’s first performances at the Auditorium had gone smoothly. He’d experienced the usual thrill at the glamor and the gaze of the audience, as soon as he’d quit trying to spot people he might once have known in the crowd. At first Seunghyun had looked pretty anxious down there, waiting in the wings as Jiyong swooped and tumbled and hung far above the stage. The Auditorium roof was so high Jiyong had added a trick to the end of his performance that he could only do in the Big Top and the loftiest theaters: rather than being lowered back to the ground at the end of his act he’d let go and land on a tiny platform at the top of a pole, balancing there to take his applause. Seunghyun didn’t really like it but the audience sure did, and Zabbi was satisfied enough to take them out for supper on him.

By Friday they were well settled in: every morning they’d go for a walk or visit, have lunch at some cheap and delicious eatery. That afternoon Jiyong’s family came to see the show – he’d had a word with the house manager to make sure there’d be no trouble letting them in. They’d been thrilled as soon as they got within half a mile of the Auditorium.

“Have you seen your posters?!” yelled Soomin in Jiyong’s tiny dressing room.

“Course,” he replied, laughing. Zabbi and the artist had done a good job in the end, they were real striking.

“They don’t really look like you,” Dami added. “But I could tell anyway. They make you seem so impressive!”

“Wait ‘til you see me actually do it! It _is_ impressive.” He saw Seunghyun roll his eyes at his vanity, but Soomin grinned. And when they saw it, they were indeed duly impressed.

That first Saturday night they came straight back to their pretty hotel after the evening show, had supper in their room, and made love ‘til Seunghyun was wiped out and snoring: the next night they’d be back at Seunghyun’s parents’ and no _way_ would the older man be able to touch him there. Jiyong lay wrapped around him, fingers tracing the line of his eyebrows and nose. Would he be able to impress Seunghyun’s mom and dad upon closer acquaintance? Could he hide the true nature of his feelings for their son for a whole day and a night? Would Seunghyun be able to do the same – and, if not, what kinda trouble would it cause?

 

* * *

 

By the time Sunday evening arrived Jiyong was stuffed fuller with food than he’d ever been in his life. Seunghyun’s mom kept _offering_ it, and he couldn’t say no, it was too delicious. He’d kept up mouthful for mouthful with Seunghyun and his dad, and they were big men: jjigae, buchimgae pancakes, japchae and namul and homemade kimchi that made Jiyong’s eyes tear up with their familiarity – the taste of his childhood, or at least whenever they’d had the money for such luxuries; then pork with stewed beans, potato casserole, and fancy-looking cured salmon they told him was called gravlax. By the time they got to dessert – blueberry pie with whipped cream – he thought be might expire. He was amazed there’d been so much food, ‘cos he suspected Seunghyun’s mom hadn’t actually known he was coming: she’d looked everso surprised when the two of them had shown up on the doorstep after she returned from church. Had she expected to have her son to herself this time? Jiyong ate to make up for it, and thought his genuine praise of her cookery had helped soften her up a bit.

“It’s not like he’s just my assistant,” he heard Seunghyun explaining as he helped his mom carry the dishes into the kitchen. “We’re friends too! How could we not be, with so much in common?”

“I’m glad you’re making friends,” said his mother with a small smile for Jiyong when they were gathered in the cozy living room that night. She pinned her son with an interested stare. “Now, how about a girl? You never mention anything in your letters.” Seunghyun’s ears went pink and he very carefully avoided looking at Jiyong, who also found something fascinating to gaze at on the other side of the room. “Here’s Daesung married already, and what about you?”

“Dear…” began Seunghyun’s dad placidly after a quick look at his son.

“He’s not getting any younger,” announced the small woman. She pinched Seunghyun’s cheek, prompting a half-smile from Jiyong’s embattled lover. “And I know such a handsome man can’t be short on nice young ladies over there!” Seunghyun met the younger man’s eyes, just once: he looked out of his depth.

“They work him really hard,” Jiyong told the room. “We don’t get a lot of time off and there aren’t many women at the Company.”

“Then have Daesung’s family introduce you to some.”

“ _Mom_ ,” complained Seunghyun.

“…You’re not still thinking of that girl you had so much trouble with before?” she demanded. Seunghyun’s lips thinned, ‘cos that ‘girl’ was sitting right opposite him. “Isn’t she half the reason you left in the first place?!”

“I haven’t thought about her in years,” Seunghyun assured her with a quick, apologetic glance at Jiyong. The smaller man gave him an eye-twinkle to let him know it was okay. “Honestly, I’m just really busy. I go on a few dates when I can…”

“Good!” His mother gave him a smack round the back of the head, and in spite of himself Seunghyun broke into a smile as if she’d hugged him. “Start taking it seriously. By the time this Depression is over I want to see my grandchildren!” Jiyong couldn’t help grimacing at that, though he quickly hid it: that wasn’t something they’d talked about, not ever, simply because they both knew it could never happen. But _she_ didn’t know that.

There was a fraught silence for a minute or two. Seunghyun’s father puffed at his pipe, observing the scene, then lowered the newspaper and suggested his mom play them something on the piano. She went, and the topic was dropped; she was a good musician and the evening ended in reasonable peace. Before going to bed she showed Jiyong to his room, which was Seunghyun’s boyhood bedroom, full of books and toy cars and interesting stones. Seunghyun himself was to sleep on the couch; Jiyong had protested, but she ignored it: he was the guest, he got the bed.

“I dunno if she likes me much,” Jiyong whispered when Seunghyun walked in to bring him an extra blanket. The older man closed the door softly and came to stand close to him. “I think she saw one of my tattoos…” She’d given him just one glance then, a mother’s fiery, protective suspicion.

“She likes you fine,” murmured Seunghyun. “She’s just nettled ‘cos I’m too useless to find myself a girlfriend.” He touched Jiyong’s hand. “I’m sorry you had to hear all that.”

“Doesn’t matter, Tabi, she’d have said it whether I was there or not.”

“I wish I could tell her it was _you_ …” Seunghyun’s lovely features drooped. “God, I was so close to saying something earlier.” Jiyong took his wrist carefully, his ears pricked for the sound of anybody walking past the door.

“Would it be easier for you to come by yourself from now on?” Seunghyun’s jaw clenched. “I want you to make the most of them while you can, Tabi,” Jiyong urged him. “I won’t be upset and I’m sure your folks would rather-”

“No.” Without a pause Seunghyun took his upper arms in a firm grip, bent his head and kissed him hard on the mouth. Jiyong stifled the sound he’d been about to make and rose up on tiptoe to press their lips together. He’d never dreamed Seunghyun would touch him in his parents’ house! It was nerve-wracking but also thrilling: Jiyong hadn’t felt so defiant about a simple kiss since the night they’d first met. Of course he wished he didn’t _have_ to feel that way – but it was exciting all the same. Seunghyun’s hands were around his waist now, slipping beneath his pajama shirt to touch the bare skin of his back.

“…Tabi, wait,” he muttered in Seunghyun’s ear as the bigger man’s mouth moved to his throat. Seunghyun paused. “Better not,” Jiyong told him with some regret. He heard his lover swallow before he straightened up. “That was getting too hot,” said Jiyong with a breathless smile. Seunghyun nodded dolefully. Jiyong grabbed him, kissed him just once more, then bid him goodnight. When he’d left the room Jiyong flopped down on the narrow bed and groaned to himself.

He hoped he’d sleep quickly, but he couldn’t. Part of it was being in a strange room alone and part the concern that his presence was making things difficult for Seunghyun. His partner had waited so long for this reunion and been so lonesome for his parents in the meantime; perhaps Tabi’s mom was right, Jiyong didn’t belong here. As he lay there he began to hear the faint strains of voices from down the hall in the direction of the living room where Seunghyun was sleeping. Jiyong pricked his acute ears: he could pick out Seunghyun’s low rumble easily, but not what he was saying. Knowing he oughtn’t but too curious to resist he slid out of bed, opened the door silently, and padded along the corridor. He lurked in the dark hallway and peered cautiously into the room.

“Another drink?” Seunghyun’s dad was saying. Jiyong saw the younger man nod. The lights were off and the room was illuminated by the glow of the dying fire; it went dark as the slightly bent figure of the Swedish man crossed before it. There was the sound of glass clinking and liquid being poured.

“Blimey,” said Seunghyun as he drank, “what did you say this stuff is again?”

“Akvavit. I get it from Mr. Ahlin down the street. Don’t tell your mother I gave it you!”

“How’s it made?” That was the bootlegger talking, Jiyong figured.

“Grain or potatoes, like vodka.”

“Caraway, right?” said Seunghyun, taking another scientific swig.

“And dill seed.” His dad raised his glass. “It’s nice to drink with you, son; it’s been such a long time.”

“I know,” Seunghyun admitted. There was a comfortable silence. Jiyong, watching them, felt the deepest envy.

“…You think you’ll come back?” asked the older man after a while. “We both miss you, you know.”

“One day, I guess.” Seunghyun sounded relaxed, as if the liquor had seeped into his tongue and removed the anxiety that’d stiffened it since they’d arrived in Chicago. “But we’ll… _I’ll_ be able to come visit more often in the meantime. If the Company’s pleased with my work this trip.” His father was looking at him with that calm, watchful air; the side-on light from the fire caught in his fair lashes and to Jiyong made his gaze seem sharper.

“You’re good friends with Jiyong, aren’t you,” he observed. Seunghyun blinked stupidly at that for a bit, then smiled. Too much affection in that smile, thought Jiyong privately, but Seunghyun’s dad just returned it.

“Course,” said Seunghyun. “I dunno what I’d do without him – I mean, he’s a great assistant.”

“Feels like you’ve known each other a long time.”

“Oh?” replied Seunghyun, slightly more guarded. “Well, I guess…” Jiyong silently begged him to take care: that akvavit must be goddamn strong.

“…Your mother wants you to be happy.” Seunghyun’s father tapped a finger against the side of his glass. “She has a very specific idea of what that entails.”

“I know it,” said the younger man with a rueful smile. His dad watched the expression with the air of someone who’d been studying people his whole life; well, he was a teacher, figuring out the young was his job, and Seunghyun was his only child.

“I want you to be happy too,” he stated quietly. He leaned forward a little. “…Are you?” Seunghyun met his gaze and went still, both men suddenly looking very alike, as if they knew exactly what was being asked. At last Seunghyun nodded solemnly.

“I am.” His father looked satisfied; with a small smile he put down his glass, lit his pipe, and sat back.

“That’s good enough for me. You bring Jiyong whenever you like; I’ll warm your mom up to the tattoos with a few Viking tales.”

Seunghyun looked like he couldn’t say a thing; he gulped down his drink and went to fetch another, but he didn’t seem as though he wanted to bolt. Instead he sat down again. He and his father stretched out their long legs and watched the fire in silence, as if everything was fine and whole. Jiyong observed them for a few more minutes, then crept off to bed before his envy grew so large it swallowed him. He lay there on his back and in his mind’s eye pictured himself and his own father – as he’d been before, he didn’t know what he looked like now – sitting side by side in perfect, quiet acceptance. Over and over he tried, wanting it so fiercely his eyes stung, but the scene always fizzled out. Was it really impossible, then? Before he finally fell asleep he decided Seunghyun was the luckiest man in the world.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 33In an odd move McGurn really did become a golfer (as a former boxer he must have had great hand-eye coordination), teaching at a club where he was a silent partner and playing professionally under an assumed name with his high-maintenance blingy blonde wife in tow.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 34Tom Mix lost a lot of money in the Crash, and even though he was making bank at Sells-Floto (between $10,000 and $20,000 a week, depending on who you ask) the lure of the movies drew him back to Hollywood. He was never as rich as before, but reportedly the super-wealthy lifestyle bored him anyway: as he said, “A man can only ride one horse or sit in one chair at a time”. Still, he transferred successfully into the talkies despite his reservations, and also had his own radio show and started his own circus – alongside Tony No.1 until the end of his days (his horse outlived him, which is kinda sweet).[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 35H.H. Holmes again :)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> This chapter's title song is _'Walkin' My Baby Back Home'_ , written in 1930 by Roy Turk and Fred E. Ahlert.  
>  Next chapter various dramas go down!


	15. Come Back Sweet Papa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong and Seunghyun see some more old faces pop up - and, for better or worse, they have to be dealt with...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Contains mid-level consensual BDSM. Just FYI :)

They’d been almost two weeks in Chicago and were approaching the latter part of the Auditorium Theatre run when Seunghyun came clean with his guess that his father knew about them.

“You think he’s angry?” asked Jiyong, wiping his face clean and applying cold cream. They were in his cramped dressing room after another successful evening show. Daesung had wanted them to accompany him to a hot jazz night at a speakeasy near Wabash – he and Soomin would be leaving Chicago in a few weeks – but they’d had to decline: nightclubs on the South Side could still be Outfit territory.

“I don’t think so. We didn’t really go into it.” Seunghyun looked amazed that the conversation had happened at all; Jiyong didn’t tell him he’d been eavesdropping.

“But your mom would be.”

“…Yeah.” Jiyong didn’t want Tabi to be angry with his mother, it wasn’t worth it. He wiped his hand clean on a towel and took Seunghyun’s sleeve.

“Look, why don’t you go see her on your own this Sunday? You could take her out someplace, spoil her.”

“You sure?” said Seunghyun doubtfully.

“Course, I’m a big boy. I’ll find something else to do.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll go see Dami and the baby, or…” The bigger man raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry. “I thought I oughta go say hi to Ri,” Jiyong continued. Seunghyun’s lips thinned, as he’d expected. But the younger man had done so much to help them escape Chicago, shouldn’t Jiyong at least see how he was?

“I don’t think you oughta see him,” Seunghyun said with a tentative air, like Jiyong was about to fly off the handle. “It’s dangerous to let him know you’re here.”

“Why? After everything he did for us before?”

“Because,” the older man reminded him, “he could never keep his damn mouth shut. And if he _is_ in regular contact with his uncle – which seems pretty likely – I don’t think he’ll be able to help himself.”

“He obviously hasn’t said anything so far,” Jiyong protested.

“Yeah, but if he knows you’re back in town and so close… You wanna risk Insull getting to hear about it?” Seunghyun’s jaw tightened. “Or someone even more dangerous?”

“That’s far-fetched, isn’t it?”

“Just…better safe than sorry.” Jiyong sighed.

“I’ll think about it. But I s’pose you’re right.”

 

* * *

 

Whether Seunghyun was right or not, all thoughts of Seungri were eclipsed the next day when Jiyong got a call at the hotel from Soomin.

“Hey, Ji!” she said brightly when Seunghyun had brought him the ‘phone.

“Hi!” Jiyong rolled onto his stomach amid the sheets – he’d been having breakfast in bed – and cradled the receiver happily. “How’s the packing going?”

“We’re not doing the Grand Tour,” Soomin told him, laughing. “I just need a case and a camera.” Jiyong’s mind boggled at the thought of any woman traveling that light; if he had his way he’d need an army of porters to lug his wardrobe around. “But I called to see if you fancy meeting for brunch on Sunday.”

“What’s ‘brunch’?”

“It’s an English thing: breakfast and lunch. It’s just coming into vogue here.”

“Listen to you, Miss Private School!” Jiyong did miss being outta the fashion loop; back at the House he’d have been the first to hear about the new fads, but with Sells-Floto it was the cookhouse or nothing. “Sure, as long as I’m back by evening.” Soomin made an affirmative sound; then she went quiet, and when she spoke again she sounded hushed.

“Say…can you come without Seunghyun this time? I’m not bringing Dae.”

“Sure, he’s meeting his mom anyway.” Seunghyun glanced over at him but Jiyong just smiled and shook his head in dismissal. “Why, you wanna dish about our men?” He’d never have dreamed five years ago that he could one day say such a thing to his little sister.

“…No-oo,” said Soomin in a hesitant voice. There was a long pause. “I asked…I asked Papa if he’d like to see you.”

“…What?” His fingers had turned numb. “Soomin, what did you say?”

“Oh, please don’t get mad, Ji!” begged his sister, her words falling over each other in her rush to get them out. “Only I _know_ how much you miss him and Mama kept saying how sorry she was for you…and every time we take her out to meet you we have to lie to him and it’s just so unfair to both of you! And last time I dropped her off he’d come back from the hospital early and…and he asked where we’d been.” Her voice dropped as if he was about to yell at her. “So I told him you’d come home.” Jiyong opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. Seunghyun had disappeared into the bathroom a few moments back; the younger man could hear him brushing his teeth. He heard voices in the alley below their room but could say nothing himself. “Jiyong, _please_ ,” urged Soomin.

“What did he say?” he managed at last; his voice sounded strange and childish.

“He asked how you are, and where you’ve been. I don’t even know if he realized you’ve been gone, or that you left…well, your last job. But I told him.”

“…And then?”

“I said he ought to see you, even if it’s just for a few minutes.” Jiyong sucked in a breath and held it. “…And he said okay.” He exhaled so fast it left him dizzy. “Jiyong?” said Soomin’s tinny voice. “Hello?”

“ _Yes_ ,” answered Jiyong, his fingers knotted into the telephone cord and his teeth gritted to keep from sobbing down the line. “Yes, of _course_!! Just tell me where and when.”

He had replaced the earpiece and let the ‘phone fall onto the bed when Seunghyun emerged from the bathroom, patting his cheeks with bay rum aftershave and humming to himself. He stopped when he saw Jiyong’s face.

“What’s wrong?!” he demanded. Jiyong swiped away the tear tracks with the back of his hand and smiled a terrified smile.

“I’m gunna see my dad, Tabi. The day after tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong was so afraid he could remember barely anything about the hours that passed between that telephone call and Sunday morning. He knew he must’ve performed, and Zabbi seemed content so it couldn’t have been a disaster. Seunghyun assured him he’d eaten and spoken and bathed like a normal person but he had no memory of it at all. Instead he’d spent the whole of Saturday night awake in their bed, trying to remember what his father’s face looked like. He’d been thirteen years old the last time they met; that was half his lifetime ago. And the man had been so unwell, enough to look older than he really was, according to Seunghyun. What if they didn’t recognize each other at all? Jiyong figured that wouldn’t be the worst possible outcome. He could picture _that_ quite clearly: his dad would take one look at him and call him a whore, then blame Soomin for persuading them to see each other.

“Calm down, darling,” Seunghyun was murmuring gently; Jiyong blinked and they were in the hotel room. It was nine-thirty in the morning and the older man had been fastening his cufflinks for him. Now Seunghyun took both his hands to stop them shaking. “Do you think you’re well enough to go?” he asked, those big eyes doubtful. Jiyong nodded quickly.

“I gotta go. I’ll be fine – remember how worried _you_ were?”

“Yeah,” said Seunghyun. “But _my_ dad isn’t in the habit of throwing my friends out of his house.” Of course he had nothing but a bad impression of Jiyong’s father, the one time they’d met hadn’t exactly gone swimmingly. Jiyong had bad memories too; but before that had been years of good ones, and the closer he got to the time they were due to meet the more those distant images of the past rose up in his mind. He was terribly frightened, and he knew that was mostly ‘cos he was _excited_. The feeling was so strong now he was becoming nauseous.

“I oughta get going, Tabi,” he said before he chickened out; Soomin had told him their dad’s church service got out at nine forty-five. “I’ll just make it if I go by cab.” Seunghyun gave him a resigned look but helped him on with his hat, coat and scarf – it’d snowed hard last night. He tilted Jiyong’s face up and gave him a searching glance, as if to give him one more chance to back out. When he didn’t Seunghyun kissed him softly.

“See you back here this afternoon. We’ll find somewhere nice for dinner.”

“Sure.” Jiyong squeezed his hand. “Have fun with your mom.” He left the room and traveled down in the elevator, through the beautiful hotel lobby and out into the frozen air.

The ‘brunch’ restaurant was fairly close to Chinatown and the church, to make it easier for their dad to walk there – he wouldn’t take cabs, said Soomin. When Jiyong pulled up in his own taxi he saw the place wasn’t all that fancy, more like a comfortable café. Perhaps it was run by English people. He paid the grouchy driver and stepped out into a street full of slush; nowhere in Chicago stayed pristine and white for long. Still, the sun was trying to come out. He tipped his hopeful face up toward the sky and let the rays touch his face.

Someone bumped into him roughly. Jiyong opened his eyes and saw two scruffy teenage kids disappearing at a scurry down the street, merging with the early churchgoers and more unfortunate homeless. One of them raised his cap in apology. Jiyong checked to see if his money clip was in place. Yeah, still there; their valuables were in the hotel safe anyway, and Seunghyun had most of their diamonds in twin pouches round his neck. He walked up to the café and squinted at the windows but could only see his pale and wide-eyed reflection. Was he truly ready for this? Whether he was or not, he was going: he took an unsteady grip on the door handle and stepped in.

Walking into the place he smelled eggs and biscuits and coffee; his stomach gave an involuntary grumble. It was a larger joint than he’d thought. He glanced around anxiously at the occupied tables in the front: white housewives, mainly, and a few well-dressed Chinese families enjoying the European-style ambience.

“Can I help you?” a middle-aged waitress asked him in a British accent. He scarcely heard her; still peering into the café he advanced towards the back. “Excuse me…” said the waitress, obviously thinking he was simple or crazy. Jiyong stepped through a curtained doorway and found the rest of the tables. He looked about wildly, and there was Soomin! He hurried past the other diners – and stopped dead. His sister was sitting at a table with two other chairs. Both were empty. Jiyong stared at them blankly for a second, then turned to his sister. The moment he saw her expression he knew.

“I’m _so sorry_ , Jiyong,” she said as soon as she saw him, jumping to her feet to throw her arms around him in the middle of the café. He heard her sniffle against his shoulder but couldn’t respond. The other customers were starting to murmur around them, their whispered voices a collection of hisses as if to say _of course_ his father wasn’t coming, he’d been a fool to think it. Everyone was laughing at him.

“…You don’t hafta explain,” he told his sister dully as she lowered him forcibly into one of the empty chairs. He could see nothing but its twin, its freshly polished oak back and striped upholstery; there was a half-moon cutout near its top so you could lift it – it looked like it was grinning at him.

“He said he was going to,” said Soomin in a tearful voice; she’d grabbed his hand and her small fingers were squeezing it tight. “Even when I met him outside the church… He kept asking about you, I thought he was looking forward to it! Then when we got closer and he saw the sign…he told me he _couldn’t_.” She blew her nose loudly on a napkin. “He said he can’t ever see you again…!” Jiyong sat there and listened to her guilt, her misery, and felt terribly sorry for her. For himself he couldn’t yet tell: something was there inside him, growing ready to burst out, but he didn’t know if it would be anger or unhappiness or even shame. “I…I don’t know why he changed his mind,” said Soomin, tears in her eyes.

“It was probably the church,” hazarded Jiyong. He sounded detached even to himself. “Should’ve guessed Sunday would be a bad day.” There’d most likely been _something_ about sinners during the service, and that’d be enough to set the older man off.

“Jiyong…” said Soomin with a searching look. “Are you okay?” Jiyong gave her a shrug, caught sight of that empty grinning chair, and burst into tears. There it was, he thought indistinctly as he leaned over the table and cried: not anger, not even shame at breaking down in front of all these muttering diners. Soomin was calling him but he could no longer hear her as his sobs grew louder, could no longer hear the whispering hiss around them: there was nothing but the sound of his own scalding disappointment.

 

* * *

 

“Sshhh, it’s okay,” Seunghyun was telling him. Jiyong sniffed and his lover held him tighter; he didn’t feel any better. Soomin had brought him back to the hotel and guided him through the lobby, where more people stared at his foreign face and red eyes. Distraught and blaming herself she’d stayed with him ‘til Seunghyun got back from taking his mother to the early Christmas market. Jiyong had heard her murmuring to the older man and Seunghyun’s comforting tones in response. As soon as she’d gone Seunghyun had come to him, picked him right up like he was a kid, and was now sitting in the window-seat with both arms locked around him.

“He never oughta have told her he’d come,” Jiyong said weakly. The scarlet wool of Seunghyun’s sweater was fluffy and held the warmth of his body; he pressed his face into it. “He was never gunna go through with it – he hates me.”

“He doesn’t,” said Seunghyun against his hair. He felt the bigger man exhale. “He’s just too set in his ways to know how to forgive you. Not that you need forgiving!” Jiyong wanted to agree, but in this moment he couldn’t. He tried to think of something that’d hurt him quite this badly before; there was nothing, not when Mr. Insull had agreed to sell him to McGurn, not even when his dad had banned him from the house all those years ago. Those times he hadn’t been so full of _hope_ as he’d been today, and to have it smashed was…

“…What do I do now?” he said. He’d been resigned to it before – he’d have to try and resign himself again.

“Give him time,” coaxed Seunghyun, his fingers firm and steady on the back of Jiyong’s neck. “If you don’t think he deserves it, fine – I’d totally understand – but perhaps he’ll come around when he’s not full of psalms and sermons. Maybe even try again next year. But don’t make yourself this miserable by giving up.” Jiyong didn’t tell him he thought that a very slim chance: who said his father would think it _worth_ trying again? Besides, by next year the Chicago Outfit might have a new leader and visiting could be more difficult than ever. No, Jiyong had blown his chance. He felt his shoulders begin to shake again.

“Uh-uh!” Seunghyun whispered against his ear; Jiyong could hear the dismay. “No more crying right now, you’re better than all this!” The younger man drew in a shuddering breath, then sat up in his lap.

“…You hafta help me, Tabi,” he said tearfully. “You gotta _make_ me forget.”

At first Jiyong wasn’t sure it was gunna work: Seunghyun took his face in both hands, wiped the moisture away, then kissed him softly and sweetly, as consoling as he knew how to be. It didn’t help. Jiyong flung both arms around his neck and demanded more passion ‘til Seunghyun’s lips were bruising and they were both out of breath. But when the older man carried him to the bed and gently removed his clothes it felt like the reverence you’d give someone who was frail or gravely injured. Jiyong didn’t wanna be reminded that, emotionally speaking, he was.

“Not like this,” he muttered; he couldn’t get hard this way, not now, and that was what he wanted. “Like you do on the train.” Seunghyun looked concerned: apparently it was one thing to whup the living daylights outta Jiyong when he was terminally stressed but quite another when he was dealing with what amounted to a bereavement. “Please, Tabi,” begged the younger man. When that didn’t work he leaned up on one elbow and slapped Seunghyun across the face. “ _Please_.” Seunghyun’s eyes flared with a momentary spark: of course he didn’t like that, which was what Jiyong had banked on. His expressive mouth thinned and he caught Jiyong’s wrist before he could try it again.

“All _right_. If you want me to stop, tell me.” Jiyong nodded eagerly; the next second Seunghyun’s own hand connected with his face, a light slap meant to sting, and it _did_. Jiyong squeezed out a few more tears as his cheek began to smart, but granted his lover a smile that was part defiance and part gratitude. Seunghyun flipped him over and pressed his head down against the pillow. “Stay.”

Jiyong lay there and watched outta the corner of one eye as Seunghyun disrobed behind him; sometimes the power dynamic worked better when he was clothed and Jiyong was naked but today the smaller man couldn’t wait to feel the heat of his skin. For a while Seunghyun just looked at him, a red mark glowing on his magnificent cheekbone where Jiyong had socked him. Then he went to the window that faced out on the alley and removed the curtain cords from their hooks. Jiyong shivered: he _wanted_ to be restrained, now more than ever before needed to be made mindless by those perfect hands.

“Go on,” he said quickly, crossing his wrists behind his back.

“Don’t talk unless I say so,” Seunghyun scolded him. Instead of tying him up he raised the ropes and brought the heavy tassel ends down on Jiyong’s ass, over and over until Jiyong was squirming; he didn’t try to get away. Seunghyun climbed up to straddle him and placed a kiss in the small of his back before finally securing his wrists. The cord was silky so he pulled it tight, tight, ‘til Jiyong gasped and began to grow hard beneath him. The bigger man lay down on top of him, weight crushing him deliciously into the covers. “I love you,” rumbled Seunghyun in his ear. “You’re worth more than all this: that’s the one thing I want you to remember. I’m gonna take the rest of it away.” Jiyong thought of that empty chair and prayed he’d be able to make good on his promise. “Here.” Two of his lover’s long fingers were nudging against his lips. “Suck.” Jiyong took them into his mouth, happy to be distracted, and was even happier when Seunghyun pushed his thighs apart.

“Please…” murmured Jiyong after too much teasing. It earned him a hard slap on the buttock but then those fingers entered him, opening him up with a stretch that was just a bit too quick for comfort. Jiyong whined into the pillow, fully crying out when Seunghyun brushed that hard bump inside him; the pad of his middle finger pressed against it so firmly that for a second Jiyong saw stars. He could feel the length of Seunghyun’s cock against his inner thigh – would the older man satisfy him this soon? Evidently not.

“You can still think, huh,” said Seunghyun, withdrawing his fingers. Jiyong twisted to look at him pleadingly.

“…Open my big suitcase,” he suggested, spreading his legs wider in an obscene pose to get Seunghyun to hurry up.

“I already got the Vaseline.” Seunghyun glared at him like he was a misbehaving student. “Why, what’ll I find there?”

“Horsewhip,” whispered Jiyong. He saw the other man’s eyes widen before a determined expression crossed his face; he’d been afraid Seunghyun would balk at something like that, but his perfect Tabi was gunna oblige him.

“Like I always say, you’re unbelievable,” Seunghyun told him, and went to the wardrobe to find it. It wasn’t really a whip but a short, flexible riding crop less than two feet long with a switch of leather at the tip; he’d pinched it from Tom Mix as a memento, the cowboy never used it anyway. Seunghyun thwacked at the air a couple of times, experimenting: the whistling sound it made had Jiyong flinching without meaning to. “You asked for it,” said the bigger man huskily. “And you can stop it, remember.”

“I don’t wanna remember,” announced Jiyong. He got his knees under him and put himself in position, head sunk in the pillow, thighs parted and ass raised invitingly. Seunghyun knelt on the edge of the bed. He trailed the tip of the crop thoughtfully across Jiyong’s buttocks, prodded it against the firm flesh to watch it give and spring back. Jiyong bit his lip as it touched him again in a light tap; then again, harder.

“You forget yet?” inquired Seunghyun.

“No…” Seunghyun shrugged and drew his arm back, laying the length of the crop hard against Jiyong’s ass with an audible crack. Jiyong yelped and turned his face in to the pillow; this was gunna get loud, good job the snooty hotel had stuck them in a room at the back.

“Bite down,” ordered Seunghyun. Jiyong got a mouthful of pillow between his teeth and braced himself.

Five minutes later Seunghyun turned him over. Both men were panting and tears were streaming down Jiyong’s face once again, this time for a much less hurtful reason. It _did_ hurt, of course: his ass and thighs were on fire and he pulled his knees up to try and minimize contact with the bed. It didn’t help ‘cos Seunghyun just locked an arm around each thigh, got down between his legs and began to suck him ‘til he was fully erect again. Jiyong let out a series of pained squeaks at the pressure of Seunghyun’s toned arms on the fresh whipstrikes. The older man had grown to relish that sound, though, and didn’t let go ‘til Jiyong was close to a climax.

“Want me inside you now?” asked Seunghyun against his lips; Jiyong could only nod frantically, his entire being focused on the prospect of his man’s cock thrusting into him. It’d hurt his abused thighs and ass even more, he knew, imagining Seunghyun’s hips striking mercilessly against his buttocks; he didn’t care. Hurriedly Seunghyun retrieved the petroleum jelly and lubed everything within reach before parting Jiyong’s cheeks and lining himself up, hard and trembling with desire and devotion. Jiyong grit his teeth and welcomed the invasion.

It was wonderful, it always was, the discomfort in his bound arms with the weight of his torso resting on them and the pain from the crop balancing out the steady pleasure of Seunghyun’s movements. They fit together so perfectly at this point that it was effortless. Maybe that was why Jiyong couldn’t quite get there, couldn’t reach the state of oblivion he was craving: he could still hear his own moans and Seunghyun’s harsh breaths above him, and beyond that beautiful face he could see the empty chair and Soomin’s guilt-stricken expression. Seunghyun knew it, of course.

“…Not enough?” he growled, buried deep inside him. Jiyong met his eyes and he grunted. “You trust me?” Of course Jiyong did, there was no-one in this world who was more careful of him. “If you don’t like it, kick me.” Seunghyun slid one strong arm beneath Jiyong’s shoulders to support him. His other hand rose to caress the smaller man’s cheek; those long fingers trailed along his jaw and down his neck, and his eyes met Jiyong’s. Then the hand closed around his throat.

Jiyong felt his whole body jerk. Oh, he knew what this was! It’d happened to him once or twice before with tricks who’d paid through the nose for the privilege – always with an enforcer in the room, ‘cos everyone knew this was one of those plays there might be no coming back from. Seunghyun’s eyes were dark and steady and Jiyong trusted him not to lose control; he hadn’t always, but right now his Tabi was a worthy lifeline. He nodded very slightly, felt the pressure on his neck and his pulse beating against his lover’s hand. It was a loose hold still: merely showing Seunghyun’s dominance and control.

“Okay?” Seunghyun smiled at him and started to move again, long, deep rocking motions that deliberately missed Jiyong’s sweet spot but felt so good the smaller man could take it for hours. Jiyong curled his legs around Seunghyun’s hips, the burn from his injuries intensifying as that hand tightened little by little, palm pressing down steadily on his airway. Everything on Jiyong’s body felt erect: his cock, his nipples, even his hair was standing on end at the risk, at the feeling of his very breath being controlled for him. The bitter images from that morning were growing faint and wobbly along with his real vision; he tried to suck in a deep breath and couldn’t. “Sshh,” advised Seunghyun, lips caressing his. “Slow and shallow.” Jiyong did as he asked and got a faint stream of oxygen that stopped him struggling long enough for the hand to squeeze him tighter.

He was past fear now, past anything but an odd duality that comprised a floating sensation mixed with the rise of a barreling pleasure low in his body, pleasure like a train picking up speed. Seunghyun _was_ speeding up, he could tell vaguely, though he couldn’t really see him anymore, only feel that crushing hand and the hard length of his cock inside him now hitting the perfect spot over and over. He could see nothing but darkness until suddenly a dazzling display like Seunghyun’s fireworks burst in his vision and he felt himself orgasm. The climax was so strong it felt as if it’d been ripped from him and he realized it was ‘cos he was breathing again, the hand was gone and the feeling of air in his lungs was the sweetest thing he’d ever experienced. Seunghyun was still talking to him, his words nonsense but the tone grounding and comforting.

“…That’s right, that’s right, you’re okay, just breathe,” Seunghyun was murmuring over his gasps. Jiyong felt him pull out, then the movement of Seunghyun’s hand between their bodies as he jerked off to completion; he must’ve guessed Jiyong couldn’t take any more sensation without going crazy. As soon as he was done Seunghyun kissed him, rolled him partway over and untied him. The blood rushing back to his arms hurt almost as much as the aftermath of the crop, and Jiyong winced and whimpered while Seunghyun rubbed his limbs back to normal. As soon as Jiyong could move them again he wrapped them around the bigger man’s back and held on tight. Seunghyun returned the embrace, enveloping Jiyong in adoration.

“Tabi…” managed Jiyong.

“Mmm?” Seunghyun was kissing his hair.

“Thanks.”

“Feels better?” asked Seunghyun, his fingers tracing the tattoos on Jiyong’s back. Jiyong considered lazily.

“…Hurts better,” he concluded. They lay there a long time thinking of nothing at all. Eventually Jiyong began to move of his own accord so Seunghyun helped him kneel up and turn to the old gilt mirror on the wall.

“You’re gonna be sore,” Seunghyun told him, stating the obvious. They both stared in awe at the criss-cross of red stripes covering him from the base of his spine to his knees, and the band around his throat that was sure to come up in bruises – lucky his costumes had high collars. “I was careful not to break the skin. You’re gonna be okay to do the act tomorrow, right?” As always after these sessions Seunghyun began to worry.

“I’ll figure it out.” Jiyong gave him a gummy smile; he really did feel better. With his lover’s assistance he limped to the bathroom and soothed his injuries, then lay on his stomach atop the covers while Seunghyun ordered room service – for the first time since this morning he was sorta hungry. They cuddled together the rest of the night, and Jiyong succeeded in falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

After that Jiyong’s scorching misery at his father’s refusal to reconcile faded to a lingering sadness he couldn’t shake but which didn’t stop him going about his business. He told his family there was no need to talk about it ‘cos it only made them feel bad. Besides, Seunghyun was there to listen. The hurt lessened whenever he opened up to the older man; his first instinct had been to do what he always did: bottle it up and get on with things. But introspective Seunghyun stoutly maintained this was the worst thing to do.

There were only a couple of days left at the Auditorium when Seunghyun arrived back at the hotel on Sunday lunchtime looking shaken.

“What happened?” asked Jiyong, pulling him over to a chair; he was happy to deal with one of Seunghyun’s problems for a change, he was sick of dwelling on his own.

“I took Mom shopping at Marshall Fields for a new coat after church,” Seunghyun reminded him, unwinding his scarf and twisting it between his hands. “They’re open Sundays ‘til Christmas.”

“Yeah.” Seunghyun had been very sweetly splashing out on his mother since they’d reunited: the house was full of new comforts, and every time Jiyong went round she’d show them off to him as if to underline how _perfect_ Seunghyun was in comparison to him. Which was true, so it didn’t affect him much.

“…I think I saw Insull.” Jiyong’s head snapped up.

“Where?!” No wonder Tabi looked so unnerved.

“Getting into an elevator. Maybe it wasn’t him, but it’s hard to mistake those cold-fish eyes.” Jiyong reached across and grabbed his hand.

“Did he see you?!” Seunghyun shook his head and the younger man breathed out slowly. Mr. Insull was probably less of a threat than Capone but neither of them wanted to run into him. If he found out Jiyong was in Chicago, or worse, that he was here with Seunghyun… Jiyong hadn’t exactly wanted to think about it, but his former keeper was extremely well known for being _vengeful_ – and how resentful might he still be that Jiyong had left him, dropping the fury of the Mob in his lap as he went?

“Gave me a fright, even so.”

“I bet.” Jiyong sat back. “…I can’t imagine how it’d feel to see him,” he said slowly.

“Probably as awful as it felt _not_ to see your dad,” guessed Seunghyun with a shiver. Jiyong wondered about that: his relationship with Mr. Insull had been far more complicated than Seunghyun’s. Would he be as frightened as Tabi, or would he be defiant? He’d been thinking the same thing about running into his former clients or Outfit members like Rocco, or God forbid McGurn: would his charms be sufficient to get him out of trouble? Oh, he knew he was still beguiling but the bombshell blonde hair and the seductive perfumes and jewels had gone, to be replaced by tattoos and callused hands. He wasn’t at all sure he’d be able to handle them the same way, and he didn’t know any other. Better, after all, to take good care not to meet any of ‘em.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong was curled in one of the needlepoint chairs when Seunghyun got back from whatever errand he’d been running that afternoon; Jiyong had calmed him down enough to quit obsessing about seeing Mr. Insull and sent him on his way. He didn’t feel like going out himself. The younger man had been thinking about his father again, couldn’t help it: over and over in his head it played, the moment he’d seen Soomin’s face and known his dad wasn’t coming. She’d told him that since then the man refused to even discuss him. He shouldn’t be so upset, he chided himself, it wasn’t as if anything had _changed_ ; oh, but he’d raised his hopes so high, had been ready to reconcile and give his parent all the love he’d been uselessly storing up since he was thirteen – and now here it was again, festering within him and going to waste. Seeing Seunghyun’s placid, affectionate relationship with his own father only made it worse.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Seunghyun, instantly reading his face. He started towards him, hand outstretched to comfort him.

“The thing from earlier,” Jiyong admitted. He didn’t wanna say ‘my dad’ right now, he wanted to keep _some_ dignity. To his surprise Seunghyun stopped dead.

“Oh,” he said. Maybe the bigger man figured he wanted to be alone? Well, he didn’t! He oughta reassure Seunghyun, tell him he knew there was little hope of mending things now and this was simply part of resigning himself to it.

“…I just miss him,” said Jiyong, on the verge of tears, unable to reassure even himself. “More and more the last couple of years… I dunno why I miss him _so much_. And I _know_ I shouldn’t, but…” He hid his face in his hand, hoping the warmth of his own flesh might comfort him. When he looked up again he saw Seunghyun staring at him in absolute horror. He frowned, puzzled. “…Tabi, what is it, what’s wrong?” Wasn’t it natural to be grieving over his father’s latest demonstration of hate?

“He’ll never forgive you,” Seunghyun told him flatly. Jiyong stopped breathing: how could he say something so cruel, without a hint of sympathy in his tone?! And so suddenly, when he’d always been supportive! Had something happened while he was out? Whatever it was, nothing could excuse _this_. “Not after you ran out on him; he doesn’t have it in him not to resent you. It’s too late, don’t you know that? You’re a fool to cry over him.” Jiyong’s eyes had opened wide at his first words; before they narrowed he saw Seunghyun notice the hurt and the fact that the harsh truth had hit home. And Jiyong realized in turn that he might never forgive Seunghyun for forcing him to hear it. He jumped to his feet, angrily dashing the tears from his eyes.

“Fuck you,” he managed, and pushed past him. Seunghyun was looking astonished now, the goddamn idiot, what did he expect?! Jiyong blundered towards the door and tugged it open.

“ _Jiyong_ -!” he heard the older man shout behind him, but he slammed the door and raced down the hall. He had to get some air – anyplace that was far away from Seunghyun.

 

* * *

 

He supposed he should’ve gone to Dami’s. If he’d been sensible he would have. But he wasn’t feeling too sensible right now and he wanted to spite Seunghyun – how _could_ he have said all that?! So Jiyong did the easiest thing that would deliberately cross him: he went and looked up Seungri.

It wasn’t a long meeting – the younger man was working at a modish new restaurant between Armor Square and the Near South Side, Jiyong knew, but by the time he found it Ri’s shift was about to start – still, the kid was so extravagantly pleased to see him. Jiyong thought about Seunghyun finding out and managed a very small smile in return.

“It’s a secret,” he warned Seungri sternly, once he’d given him a potted history of what he was doing here; no details, he just told him he was doing a performance.

“I should think so! You know the Outfit members are still kicking around, right?”

“You know what I mean,” said Jiyong, who didn’t want Mr. Insull finding out that he was in Chicago – and especially in company with Seunghyun. Tabi was right about that at least, the sod. “ _No gossiping_!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” The younger man sat back and looked at him. “ _God_ , it’s been ages. You look so different, Yongie. Not older, though!” He still knew where to stroke Jiyong’s vanity. They talked for a few minutes, Jiyong making very general statements about Seunghyun ‘cos he didn’t want the kid knowing how angry he was with his lover at this moment. “I gotta get to work,” said Seungri with a glance at his wristwatch; it was rather fine, probably a gift from his uncle or his own negligent father. “Can I come see your show, though?!”

“Maybe,” Jiyong hedged. He really _ought_ to talk that over with Seunghyun – if he ever spoke to him again.

 

He’d had a drink in the restaurant kitchen – like all fancy places it did a good sideline in illicit booze – and it must’ve been strong ‘cos he could feel it had gone to his head. Should he go back to the hotel and start a fight? It’d be a real humdinger if he did: his anger was overriding his deep hurt and it felt better that way, and if Seunghyun said one more word outta line Jiyong would stomp right over him. Perhaps not, then.

Jiyong glanced up to find out where he was – he’d been striding along without noticing the direction for quite a while, his face tucked into his scarf against the snow and Chicago wind. To his surprise he’d ended up in the South Loop, in a road behind Wabash around Adams and Jackson. He paused, unsure: from what he’d heard this wasn’t exactly Outfit territory, especially these days, but maybe it was a bit close to be hanging around. He turned and strolled away, trying to look nonchalant; then a door slammed open on his left and he heard a loud discussion in what might be Danish before a man came reeling out. He gesticulated angrily at whoever was inside and wove off down the slippery street; Jiyong guessed he was fall-down drunk, which meant this joint that looked like an ethnic restaurant was probably a small speakeasy. A rattle of bottles from inside confirmed this. Well, if they were Danish they’d have nothing to do with the Outfit; it oughta be okay to have a few more drinks, right? Seunghyun’s dad had told them they drank that same akvavit all over Scandinavia, and Jiyong could use a drop right now.

“Hey,” he called softly as a matronly woman stuck her head out and reached for the door to pull it closed. She stopped and squinted at him. “Can pay good money for a taste of the old country!” Lucky he’d run out with a few coins in his pocket. “It’s _bitter_ out here.”

“…Snaps?” she said suspiciously as he furtively mimed a raised glass. He nodded. She looked him up and down and obviously saw no threat and no Prohi, so beckoned him in and shut the door on him.

Down a short flight of steps and through another door was a dark basement room supported by steel pillars; it was most certainly a speakeasy. The clientele was chatting largely in that strange language with some scattered English conversations among them. They looked like workingmen, or more likely men out of work, though on a Sunday it was hard to tell. The few women looked more like wives than hookers. Jiyong handed over his money to the startled bartender and was given a blank bottle of clear liquid and a small glass. The woman who’d let him in marched him to a poky table out of the way, where he wouldn’t cramp the locals’ style. Jiyong toasted himself and downed a glass in one gulp. It burned like liquid fire, but if it’d help him outta this mood he was glad of it.

It was bigger than he’d thought down here, he realized as he peered woozily between the pillars, and there were more people. They’d all ignored him after the initial stare. The restaurant in front had been called the ‘226 Club’ but he reckoned _this_ place had no name at all. It was doing a good steady trade as customers came and went: one in the eye for Prohibition! Jiyong toasted that too, and poured himself another glass.

He was so enjoying being left to drown his sorrows that he didn’t look up when another drinker knocked at the door and boisterously admitted himself. Then he saw the outline that was approaching the bar and went motionless on his stool. No – it _couldn’t_ be. But he would never mistake that trim figure, that ominous hat, not for anyone. What was he doing here, in a Danish joint?!

“One Snaps,” ordered Jack McGurn in the same voice that had once spoken to Jiyong with such manic passion. Jiyong was too stunned even to tremble: all he could do was sit there, frozen, staring at McGurn’s back. Why was he _here_? The rumors said he was persona non…something…all over the Outfit’s domain, and this was way too close to that! McGurn removed his hat as the barman silently pushed a glass across the counter. The mobster sipped at it. “Ain’t you got somethin’ else for me?” he inquired. All around him the conversations had died away; only those in the dimness beyond the rows of pillars seemed not to notice him.

“Already paid this month,” said the barman, looking suitably cautious. He backed away from the counter slightly, darting a glance into the dim room as if gauging whether anyone was gunna come help him.

“Not to me.” Protection? thought Jiyong, edging closer to the narrow shadow of the pillar beside his table. The barman looked at his wife, or sister, or whoever she was. She raised her eyebrows at him.

“…We were told someone else is doing the collections,” the man explained. “We heard you…”

“Yeah?” asked McGurn quietly. Jiyong knew that tone of voice and was not surprised to see the barman gulp; his eyes darted to something beneath the counter, most likely a weapon. Oh, God, if McGurn got his temper up this could turn deadly in a second!

“We heard you’d moved out of the area, that’s all.”

“Well,” retorted the Italian with that belligerent jut of his boxer’s jaw, “here I am. So pay up and I’ll be on my way.”

“We don’t have any more!” called the big woman from the far end of the bar. In a flash McGurn went from serene to psychotic, a sight so familiar Jiyong could almost feel the ropes biting into his wrists and that _look_ the man would give him like he was two inches away from breaking his neck. Watching that face he became utterly convinced that if McGurn saw him now he would kill him: nothing he could do would be enough to charm him in this state. As Jiyong cowered on his stool McGurn slung the glass down on the surface of the bar, smashing it and sending shards flying past the barman.

“You wanna fuckin’ start with me?!” he yelled, leaning across the counter; if he reached for his piece, thought Jiyong, that poor man was screwed. “Ya think these folks’ll thank you?!” So saying, he swept his arm out in a gesture that encompassed the room, and as he did so he turned. Jiyong heard a soft whine escape his own throat as McGurn’s crazed eyes seemed to pass right over him. He was scared enough now to piss himself, and still he couldn’t move!

Just as he made the sound, though, he felt a large hand slap across his mouth to silence him; he began to struggle but was instantly grasped around the waist and dragged back behind the pillar and into the shadows, his back pressed against a bigger, solid body. His attacker lifted him right off the ground and pulled him into a dark alcove. If anybody had seen it happen they said nothing. Jiyong was finding it hard to breathe: the hand was so big it was half covering his nose. But McGurn was glaring around the bar, still yelling, so perhaps it was wisest not to breathe at all; Jiyong stood there quaking instead, terrified of whoever was behind him and what they meant by removing him from McGurn’s eyeline. Which of these Scandinavian drinkers could possibly know what the mobster would do if he saw him?! He felt a puff of breath behind him that sounded like laughter, quickly silenced.

McGurn’s spitting rant eventually worked: ignoring his wife, the barman drew out the cash box and allowed the ex-Outfit member to rifle it. McGurn obviously wasn’t doing collections for the Mob, he just wanted money. The man’s hand was in his coat pocket where he always kept one of his guns, and he seemed to be toying with the idea of pulling it anyway and teaching these peaceful people a lesson. Jiyong closed his eyes, scared of making another noise. Then he opened them again at an angry knocking on the outside door.

“Baby, c’mon!” yelled a female voice. “We’re gunna be late to the range!”

“Jesus Christ,” McGurn shouted back, now in a more normal tone of irritation. “Hold your damn horses, I’m comin’!” He slammed the empty cash box shut and thrust it at the bartender, and with one last swift glance around strode up the steps. When he tugged the door ajar Jiyong saw a shapely outline swathed in fur, with a cascade of blonde curls.

“Don’t you swear at me!” McGurn’s girlfriend – wife? – scolded him. She seemed completely unafraid, but then she wasn’t anyone’s shameful secret. The door banged to and a minute later came the sound of an engine. The Danish woman ran up the stairs and locked the door, returning to comfort and then berate her husband in their own language. The regular drinkers sat staring a bit longer but at last relaxed into a babble of excited conversation. Jiyong’s kidnapper – or assaulter, or rescuer – unbent too, and removed the hand from his mouth. Jiyong took a huge breath.

“Quiet, if ya know what’s good for you,” came a familiar voice. It sounded amused. With great trepidation Jiyong turned inside the arm encircling his waist and found himself face to face with Louis Scaramuzzo, looking pleased with himself and obviously very much recovered from the gunshot wound he’d received in the Salon all those years ago.

“ _Louis_!” Jiyong exclaimed in a whisper, only slightly less terrified: after all, it was thanks to Jiyong that McGurn had almost killed him. The heavy-set mobster just smiled.

“Hiya, kitten. I thought it was you.” His hand rose to pinch Jiyong’s earlobe where he’d always used to wear jewels. “Though you’re a mite less fancy than I remember. What you doin’ in a place like this, eh?”

“…Has he really gone?” asked Jiyong stupidly; the bigger man must be able to feel how he was trembling.

“Most likely; he ain’t exactly welcome around here, and he sure ain’t in charge of collections. This is _my_ patch[36].” Louis Scaramuzzo tugged on his ear ‘til he turned to face him properly. Observing the smaller man’s expression, he added: “I won’t tell him, if that’s what’s got you shiverin’. He wouldn’t even dare come in here if he knew I was around – I was waitin’ to see if he’d try it, and now I’ll deal with it.” Jiyong bit his lip: as far as he was concerned McGurn might dare anything.

“…Who _will_ you tell?” His former client smiled.

“Aww, ya don’t hafta worry about that, darlin’, ain’t nobody fallin’ over themselves to find you these days. And I always had a soft spot for ya.” That was certainly true.

“Even though…” Jiyong began. Louis’ small eyes darkened.

“Yeah, you did get me shot, huh. But wasn’t your fault, it was _his_.” He squinted in the direction McGurn had exited; then his strong hand tightened around the smaller man’s waist. “Even so, ya better watch where you step in this part of town – even wiser, go someplace else altogether. Ya look kinda different without the blonde but ain’t no mistakin’ that pretty face once you get up close. There’s a few guys might recall it if they spend too long lookin’ – and you did one of our boys a _real_ bad turn.” Jiyong recalled with full clarity the icy dismay he’d felt as he’d fired the gun beneath the Green Mill, and the dark spread of blood from the neck of the man he’d killed. His heart, which had started to calm, began racing again.

“Louis…”

“I said I won’t hurt ya,” the mobster reminded him. “There’d be no point, not these days; Al’s got bigger problems. Just watch that sweet ass of yours, huh? Incidentally, I don’t s’pose you’re still sellin’ it?” Jiyong shook his head as firmly as he could. “Figured,” said Louis amiably.

“ _Thank you_.” Jiyong nodded, over and over, his limbs weakening from being tensed for too long. Louis grinned and peered around their dark alcove.

“You wanna thank me, how ‘bout a goodbye kiss?” The younger man pursed his lips uncertainly; but Louis _had_ just saved him from McGurn and had promised not to tattle on him to the Outfit, not that he could necessarily count on that. If he hadn’t come along at the right moment, if McGurn had been more observant…Jiyong shuddered to think of it. Somewhere behind the clamor of fear he also remembered that he was pissed at Seunghyun right now. So he leaned up in the mobster’s grip, took his face in both hands and kissed him with all the skill he possessed. It was easy, and Jiyong judged that for saving his skin it was completely worth it. Louis took a deep, satisfied breath and let him go with a lingering pat on the rear for good measure. Jiyong walked evenly out of the joint – he wanted to scream and run, but that might be signing his own death warrant if this _was_ an Outfit-controlled street. Only when he’d turned the corner into an alley did he begin to sprint as well as he could through the snow – he didn’t stop ‘til he was at the hotel.

 

* * *

 

“Where did you go?!” demanded Seunghyun as soon as Jiyong stumbled back into their suite; he’d forgotten to take the key and had to knock on the door to be let in, which didn’t help his state any. He straightened up and tried not to look so petrified: he couldn’t let him know about this! His Tabi was so protective, he’d never let him out on his own again, not after Jiyong had done something so _stupid_. Seunghyun sniffed at him. “…Who were you drinking with?” He looked scared now, as well he should – Jiyong had had the shock of his life but he hadn’t forgotten what’d happened to make him walk out in the first place.

“No-one,” he announced, pushing past him. Seunghyun made a disbelieving noise. What, did he think the younger man had gone out to pick up some guy just to hurt him? Maybe he should say he had and see how Seunghyun liked _that_. “Trying to forget how fucking _mean_ you’ve turned since this morning,” he said instead.

“ _Mean_?” How could he sound so innocent?! Jiyong swung round to face him, hand hovering over a solid cushion he was very tempted to hurl at that horrible handsome face; his nerves were completely shot. He didn’t, though; the adrenaline abruptly left him, and now he merely felt pathetic.

“What else would you call it?” he asked, slumping onto the bed. “Saying my dad will never forgive me…that I’m an idiot for crying.” He gave his lover a searching stare. “Why would you tell me those things, Seunghyun?”

“…I wasn’t talking about your dad!” exclaimed Seunghyun, suddenly looking aghast. “I’d _never_ say something so cruel!” Jiyong raised both hands.

“Then what-” The older man’s face darkened.

“I was talking about _Insull_.”

“…Ah!” Of all the stupid misunderstandings…it’d almost gotten him killed! Jiyong felt a resurgence of anger, this time at Seunghyun for being so dumb, but it was followed quickly by a wave of sweet relief that his Tabi hadn’t been trying to hurt him.

“The ‘thing from earlier’, you said!” Seunghyun hurried towards him and dropped to his knees, hands on Jiyong’s thighs. “He was the last man we were talking about, I thought you meant… _fuck_.” Jiyong peered down at him, met his eyes, and without meaning to started crying. He wasn’t quite sure why – maybe it was _everything_. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I,” said Seunghyun, squeezing his legs tight in apology. “I should’ve known it wouldn’t be _him_. I’m _so sorry_ ,” he stated, and bent to rub his cheek against Jiyong’s knee. Jiyong curled over, wrapped both arms around his broad shoulders, and sobbed out his relief and rejection and the fear he’d been in for his life. “It’s okay,” whispered Seunghyun into his thigh. “Cry all you like, darling: I’m gonna love you enough for everyone.”

 

* * *

 

The Monday after was their second-to-last day in the Auditorium and Jiyong was pretty happy about it: he wanted to move on. He was still terribly shaken, and uneasy about the dumb things he’d done yesterday; seeing Ri had been the least of it, but between him and Louis it meant too many people knew he was in the city. They didn’t know where he’d be or exactly what he was doing, sure, but better to switch venues as often as possible from now on. Maybe he should tell Seunghyun about the younger man, at least, just in case Ri ferreted him out and ambushed them one night.

The matinée went as smoothly as it ever did, and no ghosts from his past jumped up to scare or inconvenience him: just Soomin and Daesung at the back door to take them out for tea. They spent a pleasant afternoon together; Jiyong was extra sweet to Seunghyun to make up for exploding at him yesterday, and his Tabi was absolutely lovely in return.

“You guys are gross,” said Soomin, wrinkling her nose at them over her teacup. “Even we never acted that newlywed!” When she lowered the cup she was beaming.

“You will come visit on your travels, won’t you?” invited Seunghyun; he knew how much Jiyong would miss his sisters. Daesung assured him that they would, and they got through tea without any more family dramas or yelling matches or threats to their lives.

Seunghyun went to double-check the rigging for the evening while Jiyong squeezed into his tiny dressing room and began to get ready. Almost his final time performing in this lovely theater: the station circuit venues that followed it would seem puny in comparison. He had to make the most of it. He stripped off, then stepped shivering into his skin-tight underwear. He pulled on the slim white-and-gold pants that suggested a pattern of scales, followed by the tight, flexible short jacket with the high Chinese collar. It was covered with paste jewels and embroidery, and shimmered when he moved. Tucking a towel round his neck and throwing on a warm dressing robe he sat at his vanity and did his makeup: pale gold foundation with a dramatic sweep of rouge, mysteriously dark winged eyes, seductive cherry-red lips you could see from the back row. Tonight he didn’t bother with a sleek marcel wave but let his hair fall freely: he liked to feel it move as he soared above the stage. Maybe he should dye it red to go with the dragon motif… He’d ask Flora, if she was still with the Circus when they got back.

Satisfied with his appearance he did a few warm-up stretches ‘til Seunghyun came to fetch him. He could hear the orchestra and definitely smell the elephants; not the same heady atmosphere as the Circus but delightfully glamorous out beyond the stage.

“Full house?” he asked Seunghyun in the wings.

“Seems to be. Wonder how many bouquets you’ll get tonight,” said the older man, deadpan: Jiyong’s exotic act was as popular here as it’d been in any other city. “Shame people can’t eat ‘em or you could set up a charitable foundation.”

“Oh, hush, it’s not my fault they like me!” Jiyong moved aside for the Russian ballet. He and Seunghyun watched as they took the stage, spectacularly strong and graceful. It was always a challenge to go on after them but Jiyong was used to it; their numbers only made his solo act look more striking.

“Two minutes,” said a runner. Jiyong smiled at him and he dashed off.

“Ready?” the younger man asked Seunghyun.

“I’ll be watching you,” Seunghyun told him stoically. “Just like always.” Jiyong stretched up and pecked him on the lips. Seunghyun disappeared to man the ropes and Jiyong waited, anticipation rising. Whatever mood he’d been in before he knew he would drink it in: the attention, the flowers, all of it, it was the air he lived on. The ballet came offstage to thunderous upper-class applause, and now the very well-spoken orator was introducing the famous Sells-Floto Little Dragon, Wonder of the Orient and Beyond. Jiyong grinned, took a deep breath and sprang onto the stage, doing a neat forward flip to complete his journey to the pole that supported his narrow landing platform, now rising up through a trapdoor. He flung up a hand and Seunghyun obediently lowered his scarlet silks. Taking a firm grip he was winched smoothly into the air; and then he flew.

Jiyong paused at the peak of his routine for the hushed gasps of his audience, then unhooked his leg and let the long strip of silk tumble him down from the ceiling in a whirl of speed and color. The drop never failed to put his heart in his mouth, and especially today; still, the drumrolls and the cries of the watchers fed him, and as he released his grip from his final pose and dropped through the void toward his target he felt a rush of pure, uncomplicated delight. He focused, twisted just the right amount, and half a second later landed on his inches-wide perch fifteen feet above the stage. Straightening up on one tiptoe he threw his arms skyward in the usual style-and-smile, and there was the applause, the admiration, the _attention_. Jiyong grinned and for an instant forgot everything else. He cast his smile across the Auditorium, so familiar from a hundred trips to the Opera; it was the usual sea of blurred faces, only those in the nearest box seats distinguishable. He swept his gaze along them happily. Then he froze, eyes widening at the sight of…an elderly man sitting bolt upright and staring at him fixedly through a pair of spectacles. He would know that face anywhere in the world, but here better than anyplace: it was Mr. Insull.

His muscles would no longer obey him. His footing faltered on the tiny platform and he felt his balance go, heard a deep and familiar voice yell out from somewhere beneath him; and all Jiyong knew as he fell was a vivid conviction that they should never, ever have come back to Chicago. The thought slammed out of his head as he hit the ground; for a moment he saw ropes and lights swimming above him. Then everything went black.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 36I based this place on the real ‘226 Club’ in Chicago, which was a restaurant/speakeasy reportedly frequented by Capone in the ‘20s before his arrest for tax evasion. Like the Green Mill it had underground escape routes, but by this point in the story the management has changed hands and so of course Jiyong knows nothing about it; still, it explains all the Outfit members hanging around.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> This chapter's title song is _'Come Back Sweet Papa'_ , performed by Louis Armstrong & His Hot Five in 1926.
> 
> Yup, Old Man Trouble is back! XD. Get ready to enjoy how _that's_ gonna play out in the post-Prologue section of the story :)  
>  (Did I manage to keep you guessing who it was at all? Or did you just know right away? Let me know ^^;)


	16. Chicago Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong declines to face the fear - but he might not have a lot of choice!

It was some time after Jiyong came back to himself that he realized he’d only half arrived: he could feel the bustle of bodies around him, hear a hushed babel of voices, but when he tried opening his eyes everything was a meaningless wash. He made a weak, fretful sound that only he seemed to notice, and went limp again. Now he’d quit trying to move, some of the voices became familiar and swam into focus.

“…Uncle Sam wants to come see if he’s okay!” said one, too loud. “Actually he _demands_ it.” Jiyong stiffened, abruptly remembering what’d thrown him off balance and spilled him from his perch in the Auditorium. The movement made his head hurt badly.

“ _No_ ,” came another voice, deep and venomous; someone squeezed his hand. “Not even over my dead body!” The first voice made an exasperated sound.

“You’re gonna have trouble keeping him out,” said another speaker, one Jiyong didn’t know. “He funds pretty much every artistic concern in the city, and half the hospitals.”

“ _Please_ ,” entreated Seunghyun – Jiyong knew it was him. “Look at him, he’s barely conscious! He needs quiet: just me and the doctor, not a visit from every so-called philanthropist that wants to parade their phony concern through the entertainment papers!”

“…Very well,” said yet another voice, this one calm and dry in a way Jiyong found oddly comforting: _medic_ , he thought. “No more visitors just now.” Seunghyun let out a sigh, his thumb rubbing over Jiyong’s knuckles. An excitable set of footsteps thumped across the floor and a door banged to. Jiyong winced, even less inclined to open his eyes: he was nauseous with pain.

He had drifted for what felt like a bare second when the door sounded again. A jolt, and he heard someone practically _run_ across the boards; the door slammed shut forcefully and then Seunghyun was yelling through it at whoever was on the other side.

“I said _no_!!” A beat for a reply, too quiet to hear, and Seunghyun began to shout again. Jiyong knew who it was, knew it in his bones, even without Seunghyun’s outraged references to predators and old buzzards. He hoped desperately that his Tabi could hold the line, found himself illogically terrified of coming face to face with Mr. Insull, almost as afraid as he’d been of McGurn – especially now, when he was helpless. He was almost giddy with relief when less than a minute later the shouting stopped and Seunghyun strode back towards him.

“He’s gone,” said Seunghyun, as tenderly as he probably could so soon after one of his rages. Jiyong wasn’t surprised: Mr. Insull was very unlikely to relish the experience of being yelled at by an ex-bartender less than half his age, and had no doubt made a strategic retreat. “Can you hear me, darling?” Gingerly Jiyong opened his eyes, and there was a very blurry Seunghyun with a glow of electric light around him that made Jiyong’s head pulsate. The bigger man let out a sound of pure relief and took his hand again.

“…Tabi,” managed Jiyong. Seunghyun leaned closer ‘til Jiyong could see his tremulous smile. “Are we…at the hospital?”

“Not yet. Zabbi’s gone to call an ambulance.” Seunghyun sounded absolutely thankful that he was making sense. “We’re backstage; the doctor says no broken bones, just a concussion, but I want them to-”

“No.” Jiyong didn’t want to go to hospital, or a rest home, or any other place in Chicago under his former keeper’s influence. “Please, take me home, Tabi…some other doc can do a house call.”

“Home? You mean…the House?” said Seunghyun, now aghast, as if Jiyong had forgotten everything that’d happened these past five years. Jiyong essayed a smile of his own and with great effort raised his hand to touch Seunghyun’s cheek.

“No. The train.” He blinked dopily at him. “…Let’s go back to Peru.”

“You’re not going anywhere just yet, young man,” the doctor cut in, homing into view beside Seunghyun. “Let alone by train. A head injury is nothing to toy with.” Jiyong gave the man what he hoped was a prettily pleading look. “…But if you prefer not to be bothered with visitors,” the doctor continued perceptively, “I know a nurse who’ll take in patients at her house; I assume you can afford it. It should only be for a couple of days.” Seunghyun nodded.

“ _Thank you_.” The doctor grunted, whipped out a small light and pulled back Jiyong’s eyelids. Jiyong made a noise that sounded childish; but it really did hurt.

“I enjoyed your show until that rather over-thrilling climax,” the older man commented as he took Jiyong’s pulse. “I don’t wonder that you have admirers knocking down your door.”

“Yes,” replied Seunghyun bitterly, his protective hand on Jiyong’s now tight as a vise. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

 

* * *

 

The nurse lived in a quiet suburb far from the House and the Auditorium. As far as Jiyong was concerned he’d made a quick recovery but Seunghyun and the professional both scolded him every time he tried to get up or do anything for himself. The nurse wouldn’t let him sleep the entire first night – Seunghyun had sat up with him, holding his hand and pinching it every time he tried to drop off – and for the next day would come rushing over to squint at him if he so much as closed his eyes.

“You’re all right,” she said eventually. “One more day and you can go back to your hotel – I’ll telephone your manager.”

“Remind him not to tell anyone where I am!” he called fretfully as she left with the thermometer.

“Yes, dear.” She thought he was cuckoo, he was sure of it; but Seunghyun didn’t, he knew exactly why the smaller man was acting so paranoid. Seunghyun had been blaming himself for Insull’s presence, had thought their former boss must’ve caught sight of him in the department store after all. He was so upset about it that Jiyong was morally obliged to come clean and admit he’d met with Seungri – which was a _much_ more likely explanation. Seunghyun had given him a resentful look, one that clearly said ‘I told you so’, but kindly refrained from saying anything while his lover was in such a delicate state. Jiyong was grateful for his Tabi’s restraint: his mind was full of troubles enough.

Since his head had stopped hurting Jiyong found it filled at the most unwelcome moments with the image of his fall from the platform – and the sight that’d caused it. What he couldn’t figure out was why it’d been _such_ a shock to see Mr. Insull there in the box: yeah, he’d kept the details of his performance from Seungri but if the younger man had tried he could’ve found out about his act; or perhaps Mr. Insull had seen one of his posters and somehow recognized him. Or it was simply an unlucky coincidence. Whatever it was, neither Jiyong nor Seunghyun wanted to be anywhere near him.

“You don’t have to see him,” Seunghyun said for the fifth time, evidently reading his mind. “I’ll make sure of that. When we get back to the hotel we’ll speak to Zabbi: if you’re gonna carry on with the Chicago run that man mustn’t be allowed within a mile of you.”

“How?” asked Jiyong. He didn’t wanna forfeit the subway circuit and give up the next two weeks’ pay, but he had to ensure their safety first.

“He’s got rid of rich creeps for you before, hasn’t he? It’s his job. And if he won’t you can tell him to stuff his contract.” Jiyong didn’t want to do that: he loved these theater jobs, the applause and glitter and of course the money. He pursed his lips and prayed silently that Zabbi would understand.

What Jiyong didn’t tell Seunghyun was how muddled the inside of his head had become since the fall. It wasn’t that he felt slow or that his physical movement was impaired; only he couldn’t stop dwelling on the very things he was trying to put outta his mind. Sometimes it was the strange expression on Seunghyun’s mom’s face as she’d spotted his tattoos. He could handle that. But he kept seeing his dad, as he’d known him when he was a kid, and then the sickeningly empty chair across from him in the café. It made him want to cry at odd moments, or snap at the nurse and Seunghyun. It troubled him even more that sometimes flashes of Mr. Insull, as Jiyong had seen him in reality and in his blackout visions just after he fell, would take his dad's place in the empty chair. _That_ didn’t make Jiyong cry or even get him angry – rather, it left him bewildered and afraid. He supposed you didn’t need a shrink to figure out what was going on there. But instead of speaking up and freaking out Seunghyun – if Jiyong told his beloved _that_ they might invalid him for weeks, it sounded so crazy – he kept it to himself and prayed both old men would get outta his head and stay out.

 

* * *

 

The next day Jiyong walked back into the hotel on Seunghyun’s arm; he was feeling a lot better, and the way the staff treated them as real guests, when just a few years ago they’d have been viewed more like lepers, perked him up even more. He couldn’t help himself: he did love the luxury.

“Is Mr. Zabrowski here?” Seunghyun was asking a desk clerk. The young woman nodded.

“I believe he’s taking a meeting, Sir; I saw him in the tea room just a little while ago.”

“That’s okay,” said Seunghyun comfortably. “We’re in no hurry.” He drew Jiyong over to one of the plush lobby sofas, but after a minute Jiyong left him there and took himself off for a stroll around the ground floor – he’d been inactive for days now and his muscles felt like they were turning into noodles.

Jiyong walked along, admiring the beautiful décor of the public rooms and ignoring the rich white guests who were looking at him askance or with interest, depending on whether or not they were variety show enthusiasts. When he came to the tea room he spent a few moments appreciating the ladies’ couture hats, then peered around to see if he could spot his manager; maybe he was entertaining a promoter or magazine reporter, in which case Jiyong might get invited to join them. The sooner he could have a word with him the better. He located Zabbi without difficulty by his usual loud suit. An instant later Jiyong froze: the man sitting across from him was Mr. Insull.

“Fuck!!” breathed Jiyong without thinking. _He’d got to Zabbi first!_ A matronly lady walking past within earshot clucked at him and flounced off; Jiyong ignored her. His erstwhile keeper was calmly drinking coffee and apparently absorbed in selecting a cake, but even from this distance Jiyong could tell he was listening to Zabbi very carefully. He swallowed hard; Mr. Insull looked the same as ever he did, remote but focused on whatever it was he wanted – and Jiyong was damn sure it wasn’t dessert. He felt a rising sense of unease at the thought of what they might be discussing, and a pressing desire to get back to Seunghyun – he’d know what to do.

Jiyong’s manager quit gesticulating, which presumably meant he was done. Mr. Insull put down his cup and dabbed at his moustache in a gesture so familiar it made the younger man ache. He leaned back in his chair, ready to begin one of his monologues – Jiyong had heard them often enough and knew exactly what it looked like. As he did so his gaze lifted, and to Jiyong’s horror seemed to fix on him. Like a slow-motion scene from a movie Jiyong saw his hands come to rest on the arms of his chair, saw him begin to push himself up, lined face coming to life at the sight of him. That was enough: a wave of galvanizing fright smacked at Jiyong in a full-body blow, enough to snap him back into movement and thought. He took to his heels and skidded across the lobby – why the hell was it so vast?! – and up to Seunghyun.

“We gotta go!” he announced, now in a state of near-total panic. Seunghyun was looking at him stupidly with his mouth open, as were half the guests Jiyong had left in his wake.

“What happened?!” Seunghyun sprang to his feet and laid his hand on the smaller man’s forehead as if this was a new symptom of his concussion.

“Mr. Insull,” panted Jiyong, and that was all he needed to say. Seunghyun’s handsome face turned ugly before it transformed into concern. “He’s with Zabbi now, God knows what he’s telling him! We hafta _leave_.”

“Where?” Seunghyun was leading him briskly toward the stairs, to their own narrow room at the rear of the hotel.

“Back to Indiana.” Jiyong could feel his hand shuddering in Seunghyun’s, and thanked every deity listening that the older man was here beside him.

“What about the engagement?” said Seunghyun quickly, jamming the key in their door and throwing it open. He locked it behind them and began to throw clothes into their suitcases like Jiyong wasn’t going crazy – as if this was no overreaction at all. “You still have the other venues and it’s nearly Christmas…” Jiyong opened the room safe and rammed their few valuables into his pockets.

“Screw the engagement and screw Zabbi! I don’t care about my career right now, I’ll have nothing more to do with him now that man’s gotten at him.” He took an unsteady breath. “We go back to Peru,” he said, calming a little as Seunghyun took him by the shoulders and began to rub them. “Maybe even down to Florida, we can camp out with Timtam like we used to. Keep our heads down, save money, and don’t show our faces round the winter quarters ‘til all this blows over. I’ll do the carnivals and work on my act for next season, but we’ll never perform in Chicago again – and this time I mean it!”

“All right,” agreed Seunghyun, kissing him in what felt very much like relief; if he was thinking about his parents he wasn’t showing it. “Now, how do we get out of here?”

“Window. Lucky they gave us an alley view.” Jiyong took the cases. “You first, I’ll chuck ‘em down to you.”

“Can you manage it?” asked Seunghyun doubtfully; he shoved the window up and threw one leg over the sill, reaching for the drainpipe as if he wasn’t afraid of heights at all.

“Oughta be me asking that.” Jiyong gave him a frantic smile. “Come on, _I’m_ the acrobat!” Seunghyun nodded and gingerly climbed down. Jiyong dropped the cases then followed him out of the window, heart in his mouth at the prospect of that door bursting open and him seeing… He grit his teeth and continued to descend. In the back of his mind he knew that sometime he’d have to analyze this fear – to think on why he felt this panic at escaping Mr. Insull, a panic he’d not felt even when running from Capone; the only thing that’d approached it was the blowdown. But _thinking_ would come later; now the only thing he wanted was to be far away, with Seunghyun smiling at him under the Florida sun.

 

They made it to Dearborn Station without pursuit and by the skin of their teeth caught the departing Chicago & West Indiana train.

“…Peru first?” panted Jiyong in Korean once they’d collapsed in a second-class carriage. He huddled down in the seat to make them less visible.

“Yeah, there’s stuff I stashed on the train. But you’re right, we oughta go further – Gibtown sounds good.”

“You’ve got _our_ stash, right?” Seunghyun patted the jewel pouches hanging beneath his shirt, then extracted Jiyong’s and handed it to him as if it’d comfort him to feel its weight. It did: Jiyong heaved a sigh of relief and looped it round his neck.

An exhausted silence fell while they got their breath back. Jiyong half-watched the gray Chicago scenery slipping by as it trailed off into the snowy suburbs – he’d thought this was home, and in a way it always would be ‘cos his past was here, still living; but now he couldn’t leave it soon enough. After a bit he sensed Seunghyun looking at him; he must feel awful, running out on his parents again without a word. Jiyong would have to make that up to him somehow. He rolled his head to face the older man.

“What does he want?” said Seunghyun weakly. He didn’t say the name. Jiyong pursed his lips.

“I dunno. Maybe just to see me, now he’s found me again.” Seunghyun growled in obvious disbelief. “Yeah,” agreed Jiyong, heeding the tight core of unease that had taken up residence in his stomach, “I don’t think that’s all, either.”

“Then what?”

“You said it yourself, didn’t you? That he’d never forgive me for bringing all that trouble with the Outfit down on him – and for leaving with you.” Seunghyun nodded darkly; of course, he’d always believed the worst of Mr. Insull, but now Jiyong was right there with him: his old keeper had had years to nurse his resentment.

“What d’you think he was trying to do, seeking Zabbi out like that?”

“Mmm.” Jiyong tapped his foot nervously and pressed his lips together harder. “You know what he used to say? ‘There are times when revenge is sweeter than money’[37]. And it wasn’t just me he said it to!” Seunghyun shivered.

“Coming from a man who loves hard cash as much as that bastard…”

“I know,” said Jiyong, “how creepy is that? And he _knows_ me – everything about me. He could’ve been telling Zabbi anything: that I was a whore…that Al Capone would happily kill me…that _I_ killed a man.” Seunghyun went pale and groped for his hand, heedless of the other passengers. “He knows I’m a criminal,” Jiyong went on, his head growing dizzy from the concussion or just plain old fear. “And he could ruin my career with a snap of his fingers. Not just my career: my _life_.”

“…And mine,” said Seunghyun. Jiyong looked at him: Seunghyun was equally terrified, and yet his voice and his eyes told the younger man his Tabi would be beside him – whatever happened.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell happened?” demanded Timtam when Jiyong and Seunghyun showed up in Gibtown the day after Christmas to reclaim their bread van from where it was vegetating behind the village store. “Thought you had a sweet gig set up!” Seunghyun kept quiet and continued tinkering with the engine: two years in the backwoods of Florida and it’d conked out completely.

“I had a fight with my manager,” Jiyong told his friend, and just stared coolly at him when Timtam asked more questions.

“Ya won’t find another one so easy,” the dwarf said at last; he sounded irritated. “That crowd all talk to each other – and now you’ll be labeled a temperamental diva.”

“…I know.”

“Which you are.”

“Oh, Timtam…” Jiyong lay back in the mossy emerald grass and trailed off. Timtam plonked down beside him and gave him a narrow look.

“Reckon ya shouldn’t have gone to Chicago after all.”

“That’s an understatement,” said Seunghyun from beneath the hood. Jiyong groaned to himself ‘cos here he was, almost right back where he’d started: no Tom Mix to share a spotlight with, no manager or high-paying side job; he wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up taking factory work again – if he could get it. And all thanks to that goddamn man!

 

* * *

 

When Jiyong got back from work some time later – a shift in the hated cigar factory and an evening stint at a passing New Year carnival – he found Terrell had arrived for his month in the country. He attempted to sneak past ‘cos he didn’t feel like dealing with the boss’s questions tonight, but a meaningful throat-clearing from the doorway of Terrell’s lavish tent told him he’d failed. He stepped inside.

“Your manager’s been looking for you,” Terrell informed him; he was wider than ever, comfortably tipsy and full enough of cigar smoke that Jiyong hoped he’d be feeling too lazy to really chew him out. “At the quarters. Someone told him you lit out of there and no-one’s seen the pair of you since.”

“He’s not my manager anymore,” said Jiyong sadly. Terrell narrowed his eyes in the lamplight.

“No, I should say not – he called me. He was very confused and _extremely_ disappointed. And here I find you, right as rain.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“Care to tell me what’s going on?” Jiyong pursed his lips and shook his head. Terrell blew cigar smoke at him. “Seeing as _I’m_ your manager too. Planning to run out on Sells-Floto as well?”

“No, never!!” exclaimed the younger man. Christ, was he about to get fired?!

“Mm.” Terrell stared at him, the lamplight turning the edges of his big ears pink and luminous; Jiyong stared at them to avoid meeting his gaze. “…You’re a foolish little creature,” said the manager at last. “I don’t know why you’ve done this, in a time when jobs are as precious as gold; and I don’t know why you went back to Chicago in the first place. But you listen to me, Jiyong.” A pointed gesture with the cigar. “I don’t want to lose your act, or your man’s. If you mess me around, though, I’ll do what Zabrowski’s done and rip your contract in half. The Corporation’s just combined us with the John Robinson’s Big Show for our dates this run – they’ll be sharing the train and the lots – and I’m pretty sure they could furnish me with a replacement for you. You understand me?”

“Yes, Boss,” whispered Jiyong. If he lost this job he loved – and needed – so much, what else could he possibly do? And he couldn’t wreck _Seunghyun’s_ career by tanking his own. He bit his lip.

“Go on,” Terrell told him in a marginally kinder voice. Head and heart aching, Jiyong went.

 

* * *

 

They arrived back in Peru on a chilly afternoon in March 1932 to find the John Robinson outfit getting set up on the train with them. There didn’t seem to be too much mingling going on yet – the Sells-Floto workers were jealous of their spots and the new arrivals had the uncomfortable look of intruders. Jiyong figured after two weeks of being shaken up together in Chicago they’d live up to their ‘Combined Shows’ billing a bit more, but he and Seunghyun wouldn’t be seeing any of that. He hadn’t yet mentioned to Terrell that they’d be skipping the Chicago dates again, but surely the man would understand after Jiyong’s disastrous ‘falling-out’ with his manager.

When they’d settled their stuff in their compartment and gone to catch up with their respective colleagues – Seunghyun with his young assistant and rigging buddies and Jiyong with the sideshow crowd – they found the same mix of weariness and desperate optimism they themselves were filled with. They were both exhausted from the factory work; Jiyong loathed it, though he’d been grateful he could get any job at all. Both were worried about money and the future of the Circus. But just being back here amid the familiar sounds and smells and people, knowing that he’d soon get paid for doing what he loved again, had perked Jiyong up beyond reason. He sat by a brazier and shared some terrible wine with the clowns and the Wolf Boy, Sky High and Timtam and the Snake Lady, and didn’t even need to articulate the feeling to know that _this_ was his home.

They were waiting for the cookhouse bell to call them to dinner when Ed wandered up. Jiyong was pleased to see he seemed slightly more his normal self than the last time they’d met: he looked chock-full of gossip.

“All right, out with it!” said Edgar, budging up to make room for the Ostrich and his latest hot story.

“First, we ain’t gettin’ Minnie back,” said Ed. Jiyong remembered how kind that strange little person had been when he thought he’d lost Seunghyun during the blowdown, and thought it was too bad.

“No?” Edgar had obviously been fond of her.

“She’s gonna be in a movie!” There was a collective ‘oooh’ of envy at this news: it was everyone’s dream to be in a motion picture, it was how careers were made.

“Not the one with the Hilton twins?” inquired Timtam.

“Yeah, and Olga the Bearded Lady and a whole bunch of others; they’ve been filming all winter[38].” A pause while the sideshow acts silently wished they’d been headhunted too. It was something, even so, to have any Sells-Floto oddity hit the big time! Jiyong hoped the film would be good.

“So what else is new?” asked the Wolf Boy eventually. Ed grinned.

“We got a new backer,” he told them, hooking the bottle from one of Edgar’s unshaven brothers. “And about time! I don’t fancy goin’ under just yet and I can’t get along with these Robinson assholes.” Timtam and everyone else looked very pleased.

“Who’s that, then?”

“I dunno, some bigwig; he came down on the train earlier, met Terrell and the Cannonball and everyone who matters. I heard he’s in the agent’s tent now talkin’ about billposters.”

“Oh, one of the hands-on ones,” said Timtam cynically. “What a pain in the ass. Still, so long as he opens up his wallet… Hey, you okay?” He nudged Jiyong. “You’ve gone as white as that canvas.” Jiyong couldn’t answer him – he couldn’t will himself to do anything at all. He felt like a mouse or a rabbit, or some other small thing that freezes before a car’s approaching headlights and gets flattened. “…I think he’s having an episode,” the dwarf told Ed, nudging Jiyong.

“You want I should go find your man?” said Ed in his strange gargling voice, waving a hand in front of his friend’s face.

“No!” Jiyong came back to himself with a shudder, because when Seunghyun found out he was gunna _lose_ it and he’d better be far away from other people when he did! He jumped to his feet, and trying to appear like he wasn’t panicking jogged away from his friends toward the semi-loaded train. He had to find Seunghyun quick and get him somewhere quiet, before… Of course, Jiyong told himself as he darted between the guy-ropes, it might _not_ be him – many rich moguls invested in the circuses, or at least they had before the Crash. But it’d be safer to keep his distance because that _something_ , that knot in his gut was telling him–

He ran into the star bareback rider coming out of a tent.

“Oof!” she said crossly, being less than five feet tall and a horse person, and therefore not Jiyong’s biggest fan. “Slow down, jeez!”

“Sorry!” The publicity agent appeared behind her. She strode off, and before Jiyong could leg it in a similar direction the agent took his tattooed aerialist by the shoulder.

“Good timing!” he boomed, giving Jiyong a quick once-over to check he looked presentable. “I was introducing some of our top acts, he might as well meet you too – I’ve got to go see the Art department about his instructions. If you impress him perhaps you’ll even get your own poster!” Without waiting for a word of protest the agent pushed him through the tent flap: and there, just as Jiyong had dreaded, was Mr. Insull.

They stared at each other for a full thirty seconds. Jiyong had frozen again; Mr. Insull was motionless too. His former keeper looked like he always had: a little older, a little wearier, but still with that sharp, focused attention that’d never bothered Jiyong in the past but now pinned him to the canvas floor, as the man’s gaze took in everything from his black hair to the tattoos at his throat to his practical winter boots. Jiyong had no idea what his own face was doing but he bet it wasn’t showing a warm welcome. Slowly Mr. Insull put down the poster he was holding; he sat up very straight in the agent’s chair and linked his gloved hands in his lap. There was a cane leaning against the arm of the chair and the same homburg he always wore sat on the table.

“…There you are,” he said evenly. “I wondered how long it would take.” At the sound of his voice Jiyong felt his fists clench: like Seunghyun, he had a sudden urge to punch him. What the hell was he _thinking_? “You left Chicago so quickly,” scolded Insull – Jiyong decided he was damned if he’d give the man any kind of honorific now!

“Yes,” he said faintly, the first word he’d spoken to his old owner in five years. He wished it’d been something more impressive but he couldn’t think; all he _could_ think was that whatever Insull was trying to do, he was willing to float a whole three-ring circus to do it. The idea was horrifying, not only because it spoke to Insull’s determination but also ‘cos it meant the man would have access to him and Seunghyun both – and worse than access, _influence_. He could have either one of them fired, maybe even arrested!

“You don’t have to look so shocked,” Insull told him. “I know you saw me speaking with your manager.”

“And you found out where I’d be.”

“Of course – though you did then vanish for the rest of the winter. But did you think I would just leave it at that?”

“No,” Jiyong whispered, bracing himself for the unfolding of whatever payback the man had planned. He wanted desperately to have Seunghyun beside him, though he knew it’d make things a hundred times worse.

“Of course, no. You can’t think how excited I was to see you,” said Insull, cool as if he was dictating a letter. Naturally Jiyong scoffed at that; but he kept his mouth shut, unsure where this was going. “You looked extraordinary above that stage: fearless.”

“I was,” replied Jiyong, arms now hugged to his torso protectively. “‘Til you showed up.”

“A surprise, I dare say.” Jiyong pursed his lips; he could feel he’d turned pale, and hoped Insull would read it not as distress but _anger_. “For me, as well; I could scarcely believe it until you walked out into the spotlight. I knew my nephew was keeping secrets about you,” Insull went on. He gestured at the walls of the tent and beyond; to Jiyong’s expert eye he looked almost amused. “But never in my wildest dreams did I picture _this_.”

“It was _my_ dream,” Jiyong retorted, unable to help himself. “It was where I was going when you found me on that station bench!” Insull had asked him, he was sure, over dinner that first life-changing night: where had he been heading, and why? To join the circus, he’d said, and Insull had… But it was half a lifetime ago and he could remember nothing except what had come after. “Didn’t I tell you that?” The older man frowned, casting back through the years, though Jiyong would bet money Insull hadn’t paid attention to a word he’d said that night.

“…Yes,” said Insull, surprising him. “I believe you did. And do you like it now you’re finally here?”

“I _did_ ,” Jiyong replied pointedly. And then: “Why’re _you_ here, Sir? To hurt me with what you know about…about me and Capone and McGurn? To hurt _Seunghyun_?” Best to have it out now and be done with it. Insull’s eyes narrowed very slightly at the mention of Tabi, alarming Jiyong more than it oughta.

“That young man is still bootlegging, I see,” said Insull, ignoring the reference to Jiyong’s crimes; his moustache looked censorious. Jiyong wondered how he knew, then scolded himself for being goddamn stupid: his former boss – Jiyong refused to say his _current_ boss – got to know about everything. “I hope for your sake he prefers brewing it to drinking it.”

“Didn’t bother you any when he was making you money!” Jiyong snapped quickly, before his ingrained deference to the man stopped his tongue; he didn’t want Insull even looking at Seunghyun.

“Liquor was part of that business. I’m long done with the House and the alcohol; and in my private life I heartily disapprove of it.” Jiyong huffed: Insull’s public image had been dry and puritanical as long as he’d known him, but his own dealings with the tycoon had given him a pile of evidence of his double standards. He was getting pissed now, his fear receding, and that was probably very unwise.

“Why _did_ you sell the House?” Jiyong asked, to change the subject; he wasn’t petty enough to get into an argument about liquor and he wanted to distract him from the topic of Seunghyun. Insull glanced at him, the usual remote gaze.

“Why do you think?”

“…‘Cos you wanted to keep your distance from Capone, Seungri said.” After everything Jiyong had done to anger the mobster, who _wouldn’t_ want Capone as far away as they could get him?

“Quite.” Insull leaned forward. “Why else?” Jiyong bit his lip and reminded himself he was meant to be giving Insull the metaphorical boot; why were they having this conversation? It was in danger of becoming personal. After a few moments’ patient observation the older man nodded. “Just as I thought: you _do_ know why.”

“…Because I left,” murmured Jiyong, blushing preemptively in case he’d got it wrong. But Insull’s eyes told him he was right, and it gave him the shivers. “You _can’t_ still want me!” he blurted out. Seungri had _told_ him, over and over, but neither Jiyong nor Seunghyun had believed Insull would ever forgive him. He’d walked into this tent _knowing_ that – could he conceivably have been mistaken? Suddenly the moustache was hiding a faint smile.

“What a child you are still,” said Insull, sounding almost pleased about it. “You should know me well enough to know my loyalties rarely change: I wanted you when you were a street brat, and when you were the most expensive treat in Chicago – and when you had just killed a man. Of course I want you now. _That’s_ why I’m here.” A slowly rising dread at his words threatened to envelop Jiyong, and he found himself trembling.

“…What’re you gunna do?” he managed, terrified of the answer and what it would mean for himself, for Seunghyun, for everything they’d built.

“What I always do.” Insull sat back. “I’m going to take control – and everything will be better for it.” Jiyong gaped at him, then did the only thing he could: he exploded.

“ _How dare you_?!” he spat, drawing himself to his full height because Insull always seemed taller than him, even sitting down. “This is _my_ life – one I made by myself, and I’m a _success_! I don’t want your interference and I don’t need it – get back to Chicago and corrupt some other gullible boy. I’m done being puppeteered by you!” For an instant Insull looked stricken – or furious, Jiyong was too shaken to tell; but he soon regained his chill.

“That’s quite enough for now, Jiyong. Besides, I _am_ going back to Chicago.” He stood up and drew on his gloves, nodding the younger man in the direction of the canvas flap as he picked up his hat and cane. “I have a meeting with Mr. Terrell, and you’ll all reap the rewards. Wait and see.” When Jiyong stood his ground Insull stepped around him and made his way carefully out of the tent. He didn’t look back at the shivering boy – as if he was confident he would see him again soon. Jiyong stared after him, repressed a thin sound of dismay, and vowed to himself that he’d do everything he could to make sure that didn’t happen.

 

* * *

 

“He doesn’t want revenge,” Jiyong gasped ten minutes later, clinging to Seunghyun as if his life depended on it. “It’s much worse!” It was more frightening than anything he could imagine, to have Insull’s interest directed at him again.

“What…what?” managed Seunghyun in bewilderment, trying to draw back enough to see his face. When Jiyong refused to let go he wrapped both arms around his back and held him. Jiyong tried to calm down and get all his ducks in a row.

“When I went to check in with the guys earlier,” he began, his voice shuddering in the bigger man’s ear, “they told me…they told me we’ve got a new backer.” He waited for that to sink in; Seunghyun was smart, it didn’t take long.

“… _No_ ,” growled Seunghyun. Jiyong nodded, felt the muscles turn hard as stone beneath his hands. “That son of a bitch, I’ll-” Seunghyun made another attempt to pry Jiyong away, but now Jiyong was holding on tight to stop him doing something stupid. “Get off!”

“He’s gone, Tabi, calm down!” He refused to be budged. Seunghyun froze again.

“He was _here_?!”

“…I spoke to him,” confessed Jiyong. There was a pause, one, two, three seconds; then Seunghyun dropped back on the bunk and grabbed at his lover’s wrists to hold him steady. Jiyong didn’t like that look one bit. “I didn’t have a lotta choice!” he explained. The older man exhaled; his hands were trembling with anger. “I know just how you feel, baby,” Jiyong told him in a low voice. “But I dunno what we can do!” He sank down on Seunghyun’s knee and smoothed his fingers through his hair encouragingly: he didn’t need Seunghyun’s rage, he had plenty of his own – he needed his brain.

“…Then what did you mean,” said Seunghyun slowly, “when you said he doesn’t want revenge?” Jiyong swallowed, and clasped both hands between his thighs.

“He wants _me_.” Seunghyun was silent for a long time, and Jiyong began to grow more and more uneasy – he needed to rely on his Tabi right now! When Seunghyun at last lifted his head, however, Jiyong saw nothing but determination.

“That’s the one thing he’ll never have.” He raised Jiyong’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “I know you well enough for _that_. If he knew how much he’s put you through since Chicago…!” Jiyong slid an arm round his neck, agitation sinking a bit in the warm glow of his trust.

“That’s all very well,” he agreed, “but how do we get him away from us? I _can’t_ have him prying around and interfering in my life again!”

“Go talk to Terrell,” said Seunghyun, lifting him to his feet. “ _Calmly_! And if he won’t do the right thing, then…”

“What?” Seunghyun’s jaw clenched.

“…Then we have to leave the Circus.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong banged on the door of the manager’s personal car. It’d taken only the distance between his own compartment and this one for his anger and distress to flood back, as much at the idea that he might have to quit this place as at Insull himself. He heard a vague yell of inquiry and slammed the door open, took a wild glance around in case by some awful chance their new investor hadn’t left yet; but there was just Terrell in his shirtsleeves and suspenders eating apple pie while a waiter poured him coffee.

“Boss, I gotta talk to you!!” Terrell stared, looking annoyed at the din but less than surprised to see him. The cookhouse worker hurried out.

“How many times is it that you’ve barged into my car shouting?” Terrell said, pointing a terse finger at a stool beside the heater. Jiyong strode forward, got a good look at his manager’s no-nonsense expression, and dropped onto the seat.

“You can’t let that man finance Sells-Floto!” he announced without preamble. Terrell lowered his bulk into a chair opposite him.

“It’s not up to me, it’s up to the Corporation. But even if it was, I wouldn’t turn him down: there might be a few rumors concerning his business affairs, but there’re rumors about everyone these days.” Jiyong didn’t know what that meant and was too het-up to care. “His empire may not be quite what it was but it survived the Crash. I’m happy to take his money and advice as long as he’s got either of them.” Jiyong made a noise of pure frustration but took a steadying breath and attempted a compromise.

“Fine, take the money if you gotta, but for the love of God don’t let him start fiddling about with the Circus!”

“I certainly will; he has quite interesting ideas.” Terrell took a spoonful of pie.

“I mean having an outsider getting in the way here, poking around…” tried Jiyong, unable to hide his urgency. The manager’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Why not? We’ve had other backers come visit and it does no harm – in fact everyone likes to show off for them, you included, if I remember rightly!”

“But-”

“You ought to be thrilled,” Terrell scolded him; he was looking real puzzled now, and quite suspicious. “It’s secured your job and your man’s for the season, anyway.” A chill crept up Jiyong’s neck.

“…Did he say something about Seunghyun?!”

“No,” said the big man shortly. “But he seemed to have plenty to ask about _you_.” At that Jiyong’s brain finally reined his mouth in and he dropped his gaze to the rug between his feet. He could feel himself being appraised. “Jiyong, you’ve been both a profit and a pain in my ass ever since I hired you,” Terrell said pointedly. “Don’t let the balance tip too far the wrong way – you’re not _so_ important to this outfit that I couldn’t make your life a misery if I had a mind to! Now, tell me: what the fuck is going on? What’s this sudden vendetta against Sam Insull, of all people?” There was a silence.

“…I know him,” admitted Jiyong bitterly. “I’ve known him years. I…used to work for him.” Terrell didn’t even bother inquiring further, just leaned forward ‘til Jiyong had to meet his little eyes: they showed entreaty but also a warning.

“However you know him, you listen to me: Samuel Insull is our new backer and you can’t change that. He’s _very_ interested in you, so use it – for your own profit and ours; God knows we need it now. Behave yourself – no more of that attitude you gave Zabrowski.” He raised a cautioning finger, so far in Jiyong’s face he had to cross his eyes to see it. “If you disappear again or even make him angry, angry enough to withdraw his investment, I can’t guarantee the future of this Circus. That’s all. Think about your friends, and your man, and the hundreds of workers to whom Sells-Floto owes a living. All right?”

“Yes, Boss,” said Jiyong quietly, fighting off despair at the thought of being the one responsible for losing so many Cirkies their jobs; he hadn’t realized Sells-Floto’s finances were in such dire straits. He mustn’t jeopardize them! Still, he wouldn’t give up yet – he _couldn’t_! But what cards did he have left to play?

 

* * *

 

Jiyong wandered around blindly for a bit, thought of zero solutions, and went back to their compartment.

“Let me guess,” said Seunghyun, who was pacing from one end to the other like one of the caged big cats. “No good.” He let out a snarl as Jiyong nodded. “Fuck. Then we-”

“No.” Jiyong braced himself. “I can’t leave – I mean I _won’t_.” Seunghyun spun back to face him, eyes huge. “This is our _place_ ,” he told the older man passionately. “Our home! We got run outta Chicago, I won’t let it happen again, not when we’ve built a life here!”

“Another circus, then!”

“And start all over again? You know how hard I had to fight to get this spot, I don’t wanna do it over – I’m flying, Tabi, I won’t go back to the bottom!” He folded his arms. “Anyway, we can’t afford to risk it: look at the state of this country, anything could happen! What if no other circus will take us? I don’t even have a manager now, and we gotta save all we can.” Seunghyun was looking at him like he’d been betrayed.

“That rules out going back to Florida,” said the older man harshly. “I figured if the worse came to worst I could start teaching again and you could-”

“No,” repeated Jiyong.

“…This is crazy,” Seunghyun stated under his breath. He stepped forward to gaze into the smaller man’s face. “We could go join another outfit if we really tried. So tell me the truth, why’re you being so stubborn?” Jiyong bit his lip as he tried to figure out something Seunghyun might believe, and after a moment returned his stare.

“Because leaving Sells-Floto doesn’t equal leaving Mr. Insull,” he said, and paused again, finding with a shock that when speaking aloud he couldn’t drop the honorific. He pushed on: “He’s not tied to this circus, Tabi – if he wants me, he wants me, and he’s got the scratch to follow me wherever he can do the most damage.” Seunghyun grimaced but didn’t speak. “And if I try and give him the slip entirely, or even do what I’m dying to and offend him past bearing…who’s to say he won’t do exactly what we were scared of all this time and get _payback_?” He took Seunghyun’s broad shoulders in both hands and squeezed. “D’you see?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Seunghyun, as if it killed him to utter it. “So what’s your plan?” Jiyong shrugged helplessly.

“Make the best of it: stay outta his way when I can, and show how he’s hurting me when I can’t.”

“How long can we keep _that_ up?!”

“‘Til he gets bored, I guess,” replied Jiyong, thinking that it was unlikely to be soon but crossing his fingers with fervent hope.

“Or until he kicks the bucket; he was already old when he first grabbed you.” Jiyong didn’t respond to that; it didn’t suit his lovely Tabi to be so vindictive. Seunghyun put his hands over his eyes and groaned. “…All right, I’ll try; but I don’t like it.” He lowered them and looked at the younger man so mournfully Jiyong felt his heart crack a little. “I _hate_ it.”

Jiyong nodded silently; he figured nothing he could say would be much comfort at this point. Instead he wrapped his arms round Seunghyun’s waist and burrowed his head beneath his chin. Seunghyun let out a trembling breath and returned the embrace. Jiyong stood there drinking in the warmth of him, the familiar smell, the love that still radiated from him; and congratulated himself that he’d convinced his beloved without being forced to tell him the one thing he never wanted him to know, the one thing Seunghyun would _never_ let stand: that Jiyong would _have_ to stay, for the sake of everyone in this Circus – and that between them Insull and Terrell had effectively managed to blackmail him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 37This is in fact a direct quote from the man himself: “There is no-one more anxious after wealth than Samuel Insull, but there are times when revenge is sweeter than money…” (John Wasik. (2007) _The Merchant of Power: Samuel Insull, Thomas Edison, and the creation of the modern metropolis_ ). He was reputed to be absolutely venomous in going after men who crossed him in business. Says it all, really![return to text]  
> 
> 
> 38Minnie Woolsey was a real performer with a rare condition commonly known as ‘bird-headed dwarfism’. There’s some debate as to whether it was her or another ‘bird girl’ working for Sells-Floto, but I wanted to put her in because she became one of the most well-known sideshow acts ever after she took the role of ‘Koo Koo the Bird Girl’ in the 1932 film _‘Freaks’_ – that’s the movie Ed’s talking about here. She’s famous for dancing on the table in the enduring wedding banquet scene.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> This chapter's title song is _'Chicago Breakdown'_ , recorded by Louis Armstrong & His Stompers in 1927.
> 
> Well, how do you think the boys will manage to get out of this one? ^^;


	17. Rehearsin' For A Nervous Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong and Seunghyun begin to deal with their powerful and inconvenient third wheel - with varying levels of success.

Seunghyun was even more adamant about skipping the Chicago dates this season, and Jiyong understood why: who knew how deeply Insull might be able to interfere in their lives during those two weeks on his home turf? Jiyong was scared too, so he agreed to speak with Terrell – but this year the manager flatly refused to let him off the hook.

“Seunghyun can do whatever he wants,” Terrell told him. “If he’d rather rejoin in Lafayette – for whatever reason – you tell him he can be my guest.” He straightened his gold tiepin. “But not _you_ : Sam Insull called me personally to request your act.” Jiyong opened his mouth. “Says he knows you’ll be a hit,” the big man continued. “He also said if it makes you nervous he won’t come to watch the shows.”

“It doesn’t make me nervous!” It wasn’t the shows Jiyong was worried about, it was the many other hours of the day in which his old keeper could turn up and harass him. Insull had come down on the train twice since their first meeting in Peru; luckily Jiyong was ultra-alert for incoming vehicles these days, and both times had managed to hide with Seunghyun in one of the outbuildings or baggage cars. He’d seen people looking for him to bring him to Insull but to his great satisfaction they hadn’t found him. It was no use, though – he knew he’d have to speak to him again eventually. He only hoped he could ensure it was in public.

“Well, then,” said Terrell, looking pleased. “You just have your gear stowed and yourself on board by the time we roll out – with or without your man.”

 

“I’m coming,” stated Seunghyun angrily when Jiyong relayed Terrell’s decision, and sent Jenny scurrying off to do a powder stock-check. “Of course I’m coming.”

“But…” Jiyong didn’t want his poor Tabi to be any more upset than he already was, in case it built up and spilled over into one of his rages and he did something that could never be undone. The thought scared him almost as much as what Insull might ask of him.

“If you go, I go,” said Seunghyun with that stubborn look on his handsome face. “Who else is gonna protect you?” Jiyong slipped a hand into his pocket and showed him the knife.

“You _know_ I can protect myself.” Seunghyun sat down on their bunk with a thud.

“This isn’t like Gough! This man owns the upper layer of Chicago like the gangs own the underside! If he wanted to…” Jiyong saw him shudder. “Besides,” said Seunghyun more gently, taking Jiyong’s chin in his callused fingers, “you think I could stand to see you go where I don’t? We’ve done everything together… And I guess we really could do with the money this time.” Jiyong smiled a faint smile and sank against him.

“Then we’ll go – you and me. And we’ll show those Chicagoans just what they’ve been missing.” Seunghyun kissed him, and Jiyong hoped and hoped everything would turn out okay.

 

* * *

 

“ _This_ is the hotel they’re putting us in?” Jiyong asked, peering out of the cab window at the huge and beautiful building with the liveried doormen: it was the damn Palmer House, owned by the family of his favorite ex-clients, and was the most luxurious hotel in Chicago. He swallowed, and tried to forget its associations. “Wow. Timtam was right this whole time, Chicago’s really the sweet spot of the season!”

“You idiot,” said Seunghyun glumly from beside him. “Who d’you think’s paying for it? The _Circus_?” He snorted and gave the gorgeous structure a resentful look.

“Oh.” Of course: why else had no other kinkers come with them to check in? “…D’you wanna go someplace else?” he offered tentatively. Seunghyun sighed.

“Jiyong, I don’t care if we stay here. I know you like nice things.” He pushed open his door and climbed out to hold Jiyong’s for him – obviously the cab driver wasn’t gunna bother. Seunghyun leaned towards him. “I just want to know what he expects from you in exchange!”

“I’ll talk to him,” promised Jiyong. Much as he loved this hotel with its Tiffany angel lamps, its mezzanine balconies and outrageous palatial lobby, it infuriated and embarrassed him to have Insull spend money on him when Seunghyun could not. In fact, he corrected quickly, he’d rather be able to pay for these luxuries _himself_. And what if he ran into the Palmers?!

“I’d rather you didn’t.” The older man slammed the car door, picked up two suitcases and strode in the direction of the hotel. Jiyong watched a porter try to take them from him, saw Seunghyun snap at the man. Dammit, now he’d be in a foul mood all day. Jiyong shook his head to himself and went to pay for the cab while the roustabout who’d come with them from the train grabbed the rest of the luggage and muled it inside.

“Thanks!” said Jiyong, smiling at the guy who’d volunteered to cart the contents of their entire compartment around – it wasn’t a bad job, mind you, Seunghyun had paid him in liquor. “I think that’s the lot. See you at the Coliseum tomorrow!” The man coughed.

“…I got a message for you,” he said. For no good reason that Jiyong could see he looked vaguely apologetic.

“Yeah?” The man stepped up close and set a large hand on his arm.

“I’m real sorry about this,” he said as Jiyong tried to draw back. “But someone asked me to bring you to a meeting.” Jiyong felt his eyes widen at the guy’s tone, had a moment’s panic that this might be the Chicago Outfit finally getting their act together; but they narrowed again almost instantly ‘cos there was a much more likely explanation.

“If Mr. Insull wants to see me tell him to come to the show!” he snapped furiously; did Terrell know anything about this?!

“Sorry.”

“Get _offa_ me!” Jiyong hissed at the roustabout, then repeated it at a yell when it had no effect. He looked around wildly for Seunghyun as he was tugged towards a Packard that’d materialized at the curb, but the only person still outside was a teenage bellhop. “Hey!” Jiyong called urgently, but the Chicago traffic was too loud and he didn’t turn; a few threadbare men glanced at him as they passed but nobody else looked twice, and Jiyong was once again reminded of how people like him were invisible outside the charmed world of the Circus. Then again, who had the luxury to worry about strangers in these terrible times? His captor opened the back door and put him more-or-less gently inside, then clambered in after him; the door closed and the car moved off.

Jiyong guessed where they were going before they’d traveled five blocks: they were headed for the Loop and the river, towards the brand new chair-shaped edifice of the Civic Opera House – the building scathingly dubbed ‘Insull’s Throne’. He’d seen it in the papers, the articles full of speculation that the industrialist had built it in that district to thumb his nose at the Chicago old money set. Jiyong didn’t know about all that – Insull seemed as upper-crust as they came – but the journalists were right, it was a monster of architecture. He sat fuming in the back of the huge car, staring at the ears of the equally huge driver who looked more like a bodyguard than anything; the roustabout sat next to him twiddling his thumbs and appearing rightfully ashamed of himself. Jiyong wondered how much he’d been paid. The building loomed up on their left, one of the largest structures he had ever seen up close[39], as if it’d been purpose-built to intimidate him.

“If you let me go right now,” murmured Jiyong as his captor led him into an elevator at the back of the building, “I’ll pay you as much as he is.” The elevator operator glanced at them as the roustabout shook his head – probably guessing the relative state of Jiyong’s finances. In a moment of blinding pique Jiyong vowed to find out the bastard’s name and get him fired. He thought about making a scene in the meantime but what good would it do in here with just the three of them? They slowly rose up the building, past the Opera and offices and apartments: twenty floors, thirty, forty, he’d never been this high.

They got off in a corridor floored with marble; there was another hulking employee waiting by a front door. Jiyong looked past him to the end of the hall and saw a window showing nothing but open sky. He supposed this was the penthouse floor, and he could guess who’d installed himself here. The employee opened the door and Jiyong’s companion nudged him in; they both gawked around as they walked through the most gorgeously decorated apartment Jiyong had ever seen, and he’d seen a few. It almost _screamed_ Insull. The roustabout, looking quite overwhelmed now, rapped on the first closed door, and there was the bloody awful man’s voice calling him on. His escort opened the door, gestured inside, and shuffled quickly back along the hall. Mentally preparing himself for anything, Jiyong went in.

“There you are,” said Insull from behind his desk, and had the nerve to crinkle his eyes at Jiyong. “Have a seat.”

“No thanks,” said Jiyong icily, grateful solely for the fact that he’d been ushered into an office and not a bedroom.

“As you like.”

“I _don’t_ like,” Jiyong informed him, prowling the beautiful room and angrily noting the sensational view of the city. “What are you, a gangster? You practically had me kidnapped!”

“I had you _escorted_. You cannot be alone on the streets of Chicago: it’s far too dangerous now.” For a brief moment Insull looked sad at the state his adopted city had come to. “…So many thousands homeless. And desperate people will do anything.”

“I didn’t ask to come here _at all_. And why in God’s name didja put me up at the Palmer House?!” Jiyong thought again of Seunghyun, how worried he’d be when he found Jiyong had just disappeared from the hotel. “I already told you what I think of you strong-arming me like this,” he went on, trying hard to rein in his temper while still conveying his fury – he hadn’t forgotten Terrell’s warning.

“I don’t believe you have; it’s the first time I’ve tried it in years.”

“I mean buying into the Circus to force yourself on my attention – it’s the exact same principle as just snatching me off the street!” Insull sat back and gazed at him with evident pleasure – the moustache was looking awfully jaunty.

“Perhaps, but it’s very effective.”

“Effective for _what_?”

“For getting what I want.” That turned Jiyong cold.

“You can’t have it,” he said more quietly, and came to a stand-still directly in front of the desk. “You lost that right the day you _sold_ _me_.” He swallowed hard at the memory. “You can bribe and pressure all you like but I’m my own man now and I’m with someone else. I have everything I need – you won’t get me in your bed again, not…not for anything.” Jiyong found his voice faltering as he went on; not from any doubt about what he was saying – he meant every word – but because he knew that Insull crossed in his ambitions was a man to be most afraid of: _that_ would be when he started cooking up plans for revenge. To his suspicion, though, the older man simply shrugged.

“This will be a purely business arrangement,” said Insull serenely. “If that’s what you want.”

“I don’t want any of it!” Jiyong had an urge to stamp his foot, but decided it would be _too_ like his teenage self and settled for glaring at him.

“Regardless, I wish to help your career; and I can, so I shall.” Insull locked eyes with him and Jiyong found himself quite ready for a battle of wills. But after a short space the older man leaned back and said quietly: “I’d like to have you in my life, Jiyong – in some capacity. And perhaps this _is_ the most beneficial to you after all. I think I shall be content as your sponsor – I wouldn’t wish to force you into my arms.” He exhaled in what might be a sigh. “But do you imagine your absence wasn’t felt?” Jiyong had no idea what to say to that, other than that he didn’t want Insull for a benefactor any more than he wanted him as a lover. But he _had_ said it, and been roundly ignored by everyone. So how the hell did he keep the bastard at arm’s length if he was planning to hide under a façade of philanthropy?! He’d have to ask Seunghyun, he told himself; they could figure this out together.

After a moment Insull coughed, a hint of impatience that was familiar to Jiyong and probably every other poor sucker who’d worked with him. When Jiyong looked up Insull was sitting upright, brandishing a pen.

“Now then: a few practical matters.”

“Huh?” said Jiyong, blinking.

“You have your own train car?” inquired Insull, peering through his spectacles at a damn _list_ , as if Jiyong was one of his administrative duties. Was that why he’d been dragged all the way up here?! “Sufficient privacy?”

“One-third,” said Jiyong shortly, debating whether to make a jibe about sharing it with Seunghyun. He decided against it: Insull must be ticked-off enough as it was, whatever he said to Jiyong’s face, and Seunghyun had done nothing but cross him.

“Happily,” continued Insull, ignoring Jiyong’s sniff, “the Circus Corporation has furnished me with one for my own use.” Jiyong’s jaw dropped; then he quit being surprised and simply wondered in indignation which executive had been forked off the train to make room for this meddling old man. “I may take the opportunity to see some of the country once you begin touring,” Insull told Jiyong to the younger man’s growing ire. “It would be pleasant to be out of Chicago at the moment. Of course, I would be happy if you’d join me at any time – I’ll have it furnished to your standard.”

“Please don’t bother!” snapped Jiyong. His would-be patron ignored him and moved to the next item on the list, which had to do with Jiyong’s salary. Jiyong badly wanted to blow outta the room and show Insull exactly what he thought of this invasion; but as he’d been escorted here and unceremoniously dumped in front of him he guessed the roustabout and that employee-slash-bodyguard would be outside to stop him leaving. Insull had paused and was giving him a chiding look over the top of his glasses. Jiyong sighed, grudgingly returned his attention, and hoped Seunghyun wouldn’t explode when he heard about this latest outrage.

 

Seunghyun did; but at least when he did it was within the confines of one of the loveliest suites Jiyong had ever slept in, and the likelihood of the other guests hearing and calling the cops was pretty low.

“ _I_ almost called the cops!” raged Seunghyun when Jiyong was deposited back at the hotel by the Packard. The staff had been very polite to him when he’d asked directions to his rooms – more of Insull’s instructions, no doubt. “The only reason I didn’t is ‘cos I was scared we’d get one of the crooked ones and then you’d be in even more trouble!”

“I…” Jiyong silently debated the wisdom of telling his lover about being abducted off the curb: going by the vein in Seunghyun’s temple and his crazy-wide eyes it probably wasn’t the best idea right now. “I told you I was gunna talk to him,” he said instead. “About this dumb extravagant hotel and about him keeping his goddamn distance – it _had_ to be said. But I figured you might try and stop me, so I jumped in a cab while you were arguing with the porter.”

“Jiyong, for – I wouldn’t _stop_ you!” exclaimed Seunghyun, pacing the gorgeous living room like it was a jail cell. “But I’d have tried to talk you out of it. Or at the very least have come with you!”

“That would’ve made it worse.”

“Why, what did he say?!” Jiyong caught him by the hand as he strode past – it was clenched into a fist. He stroked at it soothingly ‘til the fingers uncurled.

“Nothing, Tabi. He said…” Jiyong didn’t believe this part but the man _had_ said it. “He said this is all about business.”

“Oh, he trots that out for everything!” retorted Seunghyun with a curl of his lip. “I bet that’s what he told his _wife_ when he proposed.”

“Yeah, I think it’s bullshit too. But I’m gunna try and treat this like it _is_ business: that he’s just a backer who wants to help my career.” Jiyong looked up at the fine crystal of the lamps and the gilding on the picture rail. “So I say fuck him: _let_ him pay for us to stay here! Let’s sneak Timtam and the others in and have a party. He can foot the bill!”

“…You’re impossible.” Seunghyun seemed to deflate, which was pretty much all Jiyong could hope for in the circumstances.

“No I’m not,” said Jiyong. “ _He_ is. But I’m not gunna make this fun for him!” It would be tough, he knew, hiding from Seunghyun exactly how scared he was at the prospect of Insull’s control. But he couldn’t avoid it now, not with perhaps the entire Circus riding on how cooperative he acted; and having Seunghyun realize the true depth of his disquiet would only make things harder for both of them.

 

* * *

 

The Chicago Coliseum was a massive and rather attractive building that took up two whole streets on Wabash. Simply driving over there had filled Jiyong with childhood nostalgia: he’d been past it a million times as a boy, had even snuck inside once, and it made him feel kinda fond of the old place. Some of the other kinkers were muttering ‘cos it wasn’t the Stadium, but they weren’t Chicagoans, they didn’t get it. The Coliseum could seat eight or ten thousand, it had a high domed roof and plenty of floor space for the rings and stages, and it was in the center of everything. What else could people want?

“Guess they’re worried we couldn’t book the biggest places this year: the Stadium or the Park,” suggested Seunghyun, who felt similarly nostalgic. “It’s only because they’re scared of losing their jobs if we don’t do well this season.”

“Who’re they kidding?” Jiyong nodded to Ezra, who shot off to raise his silks. “Only The Big One’s got a hope in hell of filling that new Stadium, it’s a barn!”

“Right.”

“Anyway,” said Jiyong, as he got a hold on the ribbons and was lifted slowly into the air, “everything else aside, Tabi…doesn’t it feel nice to be here and not have to hide?” He gestured upward at the familiar shape of the roof and the gray Chicago skies beyond it. Seunghyun huffed at him like he was crazy; still, Jiyong could see the hint of a smile. He began to climb the silks and filled his lungs with urban air. The city was no longer his home but it _was_ his past, and he meant to enjoy it if he possibly could – if only to spite every dark memory that told him he shouldn’t.

Jiyong spent the first night looking over his shoulder and out at the crowd for Insull; he knew Seunghyun was watching closely too. But there was no sign of him, nor at any of the performances for the next two days. Maybe he _had_ meant what he’d told Terrell and intended to stay out of Jiyong’s workspace. Jiyong let himself relax a bit and found himself enjoying the leisurely pace of a circus that didn’t have to move on every day: the gear remained rigged, the tents surrounding the Coliseum stayed standing, and everyone had time to get what fun they could outta Depression-struck Chicago. He and Seunghyun visited Dami and his mom, went on a couple of strolls down memory lane – with one eye open for Outfit members – but mainly stayed in their incredible rooms and luxuriated in each other. To Jiyong each orgasm given him by Seunghyun seemed a defiant flag raised against Insull.

On the other hand, thought Jiyong to himself miserably on the third day as Insull strolled toward him backstage, perhaps he’d just been too _busy_ to come bother them. The younger man tried to duck away and outta sight but there was a bevy of cute elephant riders blocking his exit, and when he turned the other way he saw Gough flirting with a lady reporter in his path.

“I hope you like the venue,” said Insull quietly, stopping beside him and leaning lightly on his cane. A few kinkers were staring at their new sponsor talking to the ex-sideshow act, obviously wondering why; some of them looked quite offended. Well, they were welcome to him. “Rather less glittering than your last Chicago arena.”

“You kidding?” said Jiyong, trying his best to make Insull not want to talk to him. “This is _fancy_. You oughta see us when we’re slumming it in the boondocks!”

“Perhaps I shall.” Jiyong pulled an incredulous face: he could no more imagine Insull in the tail end of Iowa than he could imagine Timtam at the Opera. And speak of the devil, there _was_ Timtam, pushing his penguin costume off his head to sweat in comfort as he elbowed his way through the throng; he’d probably been on boxing duty at the sideshow before this, to have worked up such a shade of red. Timtam saw him, noticed Insull beside him, and mouthed something rude about tattoo acts getting too big for their boots.

“Fuck off!” Jiyong told him loudly, entirely to spark Insull’s disapproval. Timtam flipped him the bird – literally – and waddled away to change costume. The older man was watching this exchange with a raised eyebrow; he’d never liked it when Jiyong cursed, but seeing as he was no longer in a position to give his former pet a spanking Jiyong figured he could swear like a sailor in front of whoever he pleased. He returned Insull’s chilly stare – disapproval, most certainly – ‘til Terrell appeared behind the older man and he quickly had to try and look meek. Jiyong hoped the manager would take their sponsor away so he could get changed for his next act and check on Seunghyun, but Terrell just stood there jawing with the John Robinson agent.

“Would you like to have supper after your show?” Insull asked beneath the hubbub. He sounded perfectly polite, but there was that old edge to his voice that made you think it wasn’t really a question.

“No!!” Jiyong caught Terrell’s eye, saw the warning finger the manager was aiming at him. “No thank you, Sir,” he amended. “I’m always so tired after the evening performance.”

“Very well,” said Insull coolly, so that probably no-one but Jiyong would guess how irritated the refusal made him. “Another time.” And he went off to talk with the star equestrienne. Jiyong pushed his way through the too-small backstage area to the dressing room, and there, thank God, was Seunghyun waiting to hold him.

 

* * *

 

“Tonight,” said Terrell at the end of the next matinée, in a voice that brooked no argument. “Supper with our backer after the show: the Drake Hotel. His driver will pick you up.”

“But I don’t _want_ to!” Jiyong protested in a muffled tone: his tight spangled shirt had got stuck on his head and he didn’t think his refusal carried much authority like this. He yanked himself free and said it again, feeling fiercer with his tattoos exposed. Terrell paid as little attention the second time.

“Jiyong, what did we talk about only last month? This is your _responsibility_.” The manager shrugged and gave his bare shoulder a pat with the hand holding his cigar. “Anyhow, stars socialize with their patrons all the time, at galas and so on; it’s a perfectly acceptable working relationship.”

“I’m not a star,” Jiyong said truculently. He knew that social contract only applied to ‘acceptable’ kinkers – which meant able-bodied and white.

“And you never will be if you keep this up!” The younger man fumed to himself, mostly ‘cos it was probably true.

“…What do I tell Seunghyun?!” he demanded; it made his stomach clench to think about how his poor Tabi might react – keeping his lover on an even keel was gunna become a full-time thing at this rate.

“Tell him the truth: that it’s your job.” Jiyong winced, but didn’t mention that it’d pretty much been his job _before_ he’d joined the Circus and that Seunghyun was unlikely to be comforted at having to recall the fact. “If you think it’s necessary I’ll have a couple of the canvasmen take him to your _very expensive_ hotel and sit on him until you get back.”

“No, Boss,” said Jiyong, resigned, and privately resolved to make himself so annoying Insull would never want to be seen with him in public again.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong’s resolution was faltering by the time he set foot in the hotel’s lavish restaurant. It’d begun to languish as soon as he put on the exquisitely tailored evening suit he’d found lying in his dressing room after the show: he’d been mad at first, sure, at Insull’s goddamn nerve; but as soon as he touched the fabric he knew he had to try it on, and when he saw his reflection he fell in love ‘cos it’d been so long since he’d worn something this fine. It was very much in the current mode; and yet, other than the black hair, when he looked in the mirror he felt as though he’d gone back in time several years and was about to head out to the Opera.

He’d got to feeling pretty righteous again when Insull greeted him from the back of the Packard: the fact that he’d enlisted Terrell’s help to force Jiyong’s attendance stung, even while Insull’s gaze confirmed he looked very good.

“What’s with the monster automobile in times like these?” he said snidely, squeezing into the far corner to signal that he was determined to keep his distance. Insull didn’t react, merely tapped the cane laid across his knees. “And that oversize driver, he looks like a bodyguard!”

“He is.” The older man nodded at the bulky silhouette in front. “I’ve had idiots attempt to shoot me twice in the past few years[40].” He patted the Packard’s luxurious upholstery. “The car is bulletproof, in case you’re concerned.”

“…Oh,” said Jiyong, and shut up to think about that ‘til they arrived.

When he stepped into the lobby, a white and gold dream of glittering space, Jiyong experienced a shiver of mixed apprehension and excitement – which wasn’t the right reaction at all. He was glad it was the Drake rather than the Palmer House; it’d be _too_ like déjà vu if he ran into his two favorite clients again looking like this. He planned to avoid every public room of the Palmer House the entire time he stayed, and made a mental note to be inconspicuous when he went to rejoin Seunghyun later. Insull was watching him without comment, but his moustache looked approving. He gestured courteously to the younger man and Jiyong found himself following a maître d’ through the dining room to a quiet table near the back. It was a less visible spot than Insull would’ve chosen in the past; even so, there was a familiar murmur and a sense of being observed as they passed the other diners.

“There is no need to be alarmed,” Insull told him as the waiters drew their chairs out. Jiyong wasn’t sure if he _was_ in fact alarmed by the stares, or flattered, or simply angry that he was here at all instead of having a modest dinner with Seunghyun. Insull looked resigned to the whispers and the fact that nobody seemed to dare come greet him. “For once, I believe it’s likely _I_ am the object of scrutiny.”

“You always are,” said Jiyong, annoyed, but the first glass of champagne cooled him down. Insull was drinking ginger ale with lemon syrup yet hadn’t hesitated a moment before bribing the head waiter to bring Jiyong the best of their hidden stash. Jiyong glowered at him over the rim of his glass: the man was a hypocrite!

“Shall I order for you?” inquired the older man, as he’d generally done in the past.

“No,” snapped Jiyong. He grabbed the leather-bound menu and reeled off a few choices in his worst French accent to make the serving staff raise their eyebrows. Insull stubbornly refused to look embarrassed so Jiyong gave up without having any idea what he’d ordered. When it came it was oysters – which he hated – and asparagus tips, and some kinda weird loaf. His dinner companion wasn’t laughing, Jiyong knew it’d take a lot more than that to make him crack a smile; but he could tell Insull was entertained, which was not the point of this evening at all!

“If you’ve finished demonstrating your independence,” said Insull, and ordered him steak and lobster instead. Jiyong had spent too much of his life being hungry and wasn’t gunna waste a feast to make a point: he ate it. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t complain.

“You don’t hafta be this extravagant,” he groused at Insull, holding his knife and fork like a kid to provoke him. “I’d be just as happy with a hotdog.”

“Well _I_ am happy when I’m giving you things. And dinner is such a small thing.”

“Not to everyone.” Jiyong stabbed a potato. “This’d feed a whole one of the families I saw on the road last year.”

“Nevertheless, it is what I choose to do.”

 “I’m doing fine under my own steam, y’know,” Jiyong said vehemently, no longer just trying to be irritating. “You oughta be using all this money to help people who really need it.” He thought with the usual shudder of pity and horror of the things they’d witnessed across the Midwest. “You oughta _see_ them, Sir,” he added, rubbing angrily at his eyes.

“I have seen them,” Insull told him, with slightly more than the usual mild frustration at Jiyong’s smart mouth. “Every day, every place I go. And I do all I can.” Jiyong was very dubious that the ultra-wealthy head of dozens of corporations would actually have direct contact with anyone on the breadline. “Why else do you think I opened the first soup kitchen in Chicago?” So, he was nettled, was he?

“You weren’t the first,” Jiyong corrected him rudely. “Al Capone was[41].” It was true, too, Seunghyun had read it in the paper ages ago. Insull frowned at him. Jiyong supposed both the mogul and the mobster had a genuine wish to help their fellow Chicagoans – but that was never all it was. It was about _image_.

The dinner turned rather frosty after that – at least from Jiyong’s point of view – and he figured he’d touched a nerve. You couldn’t see it, of course, Insull ate his salmon and drank his coffee quite serenely; but he didn’t press Jiyong to go on somewhere else after. Jiyong insisted on having the leftover food boxed up and handed it to the first hungry-looking teen passing the hotel on their way out, giving the older man a triumphant look as he did so. Insull didn’t rise to it.

“I shall have to put you in a cab to return you to your hotel,” he said instead, summoning a bellhop to hail a taxi. He looked more annoyed at the possibility of being discourteous than he’d been at Jiyong’s best efforts earlier; honestly, he was impossible! “I have a meeting to attend.”

“What, now?!” exclaimed Jiyong; it was almost ten. The taxi rolled up and he was ushered into the back and bid goodnight before he could figure that out. Maybe Insull had a real mistress, one who’d actually give it up after being wined and dined; or maybe he was heading back to his country estate. But the fleeting look Jiyong had glimpsed on his patron’s face as he’d said goodnight made him wonder if it was something less pleasant. It was none of _his_ concern, anyway.

 

“Are you okay?!” demanded Seunghyun, jumping up as soon as Jiyong walked tiredly into the suite, jacket and tie off to try and look less visible as he’d passed through the hotel lobby: there were so many people gathered there and surely he’d known some of them – and screwed some of them – once upon a time.

“I’m fine. He just makes me mad.” Jiyong came toward his lover and leaned against him, wrapping both arms around his waist and resting his cheek on the older man’s shoulder. _Oh_ , that was good; he forced himself to relax. He felt Seunghyun pull him close, could sense how upset he was by the possessive clasp of his hands.

“Did he try anything with you?” muttered Seunghyun. Jiyong heard him inhale against his hair.

“No, like what?”

“Like proposition you, ask you to go somewhere!” The smaller man shook his head and squeezed Seunghyun comfortingly.

“Actually he got rid of me soon as dinner was over.” He smirked a bit. “Think I kinda provoked him.” He looked up, touching Seunghyun’s cheek to ensure his attention. “But Tabi, this is gunna happen again, while we’re in Chicago and at whatever town he might decide to turn up in on the route. So we gotta get used to it: you can’t make yourself this upset every time, you’ll drive yourself _crazy_.”

“Then let _me_ talk to the bastard. It’s you that’s got to suffer his company, he can’t monopolize your time like this!

“No way, baby, I know you, you’ll lose the plot. And then he’ll take it out on _you_.” Seunghyun’s expression already looked unbalanced and Insull wasn’t even in the building.

“So every time you disappear I’m meant to…what, sit on my hands and wait just knowing you’re in distress?”

“Pretty much,” said Jiyong gloomily, and Seunghyun sighed. Jiyong knew the older man wouldn’t be able to manage it for long. And yet what else could they do? “But if I were you I’d find something to distract myself.”

 

* * *

 

For the rest of the Chicago run Seunghyun was on his best behavior and Jiyong was on his worst – or as bad as he could be while staying just short of anything that’d make Insull even consider cutting funding to the Circus; his sense of responsibility wouldn’t allow that. He told Terrell he’d refuse any invitation that wasn’t to a public venue like a restaurant, but nothing of the kind came. He did have to go out to lunch a couple of times, to a walk in Grant Park after the matinée and another dinner in another beautiful restaurant; he was even brought to the Opera once, and that took him so far into the past it gave him double vision. Jiyong tried his best to shut himself inside his head during those meetings and sometimes succeeded; but Insull really knew how to push his buttons – of course he did, thought Jiyong, he’d _made_ half of them. Now whenever Jiyong told Seunghyun he had to go meet the other man Seunghyun would nod grimly and get ready to go out himself. He didn’t say what he was doing – for all Jiyong knew he could be tailing them. Or, more likely, using the excuse of another business trip to see his parents. They’d run out on them so rudely, right before Christmas, and Daesung’s relayed excuse of an emergency at the Seoul company hadn’t really satisfied Seunghyun’s mom. If so, Jiyong was envious: having to make time for Insull was cutting his opportunities to visit his own family, and all in all he was delighted when the Circus at last left Chicago.

They arrived in Lafayette, Indiana for the first leg of the touring year. For three days Jiyong and Seunghyun managed a precarious return to their normal routine, the familiar settling-in to the season: the John Robinson kinkers to get to know, novices to show the ropes as well as the latest crop of ‘forty milers’, guys who’d joined in Chicago and would desert again after a week or two outta homesickness or shock at the grueling work; and of course the unending crowd begging to fill their jobs. Despite the sights of grinding poverty Jiyong was somehow able to enjoy himself again, with the excitement of performing and Seunghyun in a better mood ‘cos Insull was safely behind them in Chicago. Until he opened the door to their train compartment after the matinée on the fourth day, and froze.

“What?” demanded Timtam from behind him. His friend had come to borrow some boot polish, Jiyong had no idea why, Timtam was as likely to drink it as use it to actually clean anything. When Jiyong didn’t reply the dwarf wriggled past his legs, then came to a stop himself. “ _Damn_ ,” he said, and whistled. The small compartment looked like it’d been invaded by Saks Fifth Avenue, or maybe an art gallery: it shone and shimmered with silk and velvet, silver and porcelain on every surface. There wasn’t another room on the train so lovely, not even Tom’s had been as nice.

“Oh my God,” was all Jiyong could manage. There was another pause.

“…So, you’re fuckin’ that old man, right?” said Timtam, as Jiyong stared around with a mixture of appreciation at the beautiful objects and quickly rising rage.

“No!!” Of course Timtam thought so; who else could be responsible for this?

“Headed for the top on your back?”

“ _No_.”

“What’s all this then?”

“Shut up, Timtam!” Jiyong sat down heavily on an exquisitely embroidered cushion. “…I don’t _know_.” He covered his mouth with his hand, then took a deep breath: the place even _smelled_ great. “Shit. I gotta get rid of this stuff before Seunghyun comes home.”

“Serious? It’s real nice.” The dwarf picked up a Lalique vase and examined it.

“Will you help me? _Please_.” Jiyong reached across and took Timtam’s sleeve entreatingly. “You can do what you like with it.”

“Can I sell it?”

“Whatever the hell you want,” said Jiyong angrily. “Just get it outta here.”

Once the compartment was its modest self again he collapsed on the bunk and groaned: was this gunna happen all the time now? His Tabi would never accept it going this far. He had to _do_ something about it, and without Seunghyun ever knowing.

 

* * *

 

“Did you like your new furnishings?” inquired Insull when he arrived by train that weekend. Jiyong had done his best to stay outta his way but being in the Big Top at scheduled hours twice a day made finding him easy. Insull’s valet – bodyguard – simply plucked Jiyong from the dressing room and led him to the older man’s car, which was as perfectly tasteful and expensive as he’d attempted to make Jiyong’s. Jiyong was trying very hard to play down his prior relationship with Insull and hadn’t dared make a fuss about being absconded with in front of everyone, so now here he was. “I thought they would suit you very well,” his officious sponsor told him.

“Not really,” said Jiyong, fiddling with the spangles on his tight costume shirt. “And there wasn’t room for it all.” For a second Insull looked quite exasperated before his moustache settled into its usual attitude. Jiyong hoped he’d got the point – would he stop pushing his attentions on him now?

“I also had your sink fixed.” Insull raised a cool eyebrow. “I hope you’ll not undo that, at least.” Jiyong nodded shortly: he wasn’t _that_ petty.

“But please, Sir,” he added, “don’t ambush me with any more stuff! It’s just gunna make my life harder.”

“Well. That is certainly not my intention.” Insull tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “That boy, I suppose?” Jiyong didn’t even bother answering; the older man must’ve known the havoc this stunt might cause in his little household. Or did he think Jiyong was living alone? Of course not, he told himself – Insull knew everything. So maybe he _did_ wanna make Seunghyun angry, or jealous, or enough of both to get him to do something stupid. Perhaps he thought that’d clear the path to Jiyong. Well, he was dreaming!

“Can I go, please?” Jiyong said vaguely. “He’ll be home soon.” Insull looked at him as though he knew every thought he’d had and found them mildly amusing.

“How domestic. Of course; I merely wanted to see you. That outfit is very fetching on you.” Jiyong wanted to slap him, compliment or no compliment.

“ _Sir_ , you promised this was a business relationship!”

“Which is how I meant it.” Insull ran his gaze over the satin and paste stones and sequins of Jiyong’s aerial costume. “How well you draw the eyes of a crowd is key to your success. I shall have your costumier give me your requirements – Mrs. Insull’s dressmaker could create something even more attractive.” Jiyong thought that was a pretty ballsy proposition even for a man as powerful as this one: what possible excuse would he give his wife?! And besides:

“I don’t need it,” he said stubbornly.

“Oh, yes, you do. You need beauty to thrive.” Insull’s moustache perked up and he toasted his reluctant pet project with his ginger ale. “And I am going to give it to you – however I can.”

 

* * *

 

The next afternoon Jiyong was grumpily mucking out the llamas – Terrell had told him that now he was their backer’s favorite he could stop doing ‘Chinese’ but he was damned if he would – when he was approached by a youngish man in a battered fedora hat and light summer suit whose wrinkles he oughta be ashamed of. Jiyong straightened up: this happened all the time.

“If you want work,” he said more-or-less kindly, “you gotta go see the general agent – his tent’s right behind the Midway.” The Circus wasn’t even open for business yet but there was always someone desperate enough for a job that they’d sneak past the guarding roustabouts. Jiyong didn’t have the heart to tell on them. This one didn’t look as pitiful as some of the others he’d seen but that didn’t mean he wasn’t having a tough time.

“Oh, I’m not looking for a job,” said the man with a small smile. He stopped outside the llama pen and removed the hat to reveal a bushy head of brown hair. “Not exactly. I’m _on_ a job.” Jiyong stopped sweeping and began listening very carefully: the guy sounded kinda educated, like Seunghyun; and, like his lover, behind the clear diction lay the hint of a Chicago accent.

“…Who are you?” asked Jiyong. He was right to be wary, wasn’t he? The man didn’t _look_ like a mobster but how could you tell these days? His suspicious stare just got him another pleasant smile.

“My name’s Jake Brown.” He held out his hand as if Jiyong’s wasn’t filthy right now. “Internal Revenue Service.” Jiyong blinked: a federal agent? And a _tax_ man, at that – what was he, undercover? His worry about the Outfit tailed off into confusion, ‘cos these were the guys who’d _caught_ Capone.

“Management pays my taxes for me,” he said automatically. Was this some kinda sting aimed at Sells-Floto? Jiyong had no wish to get involved with any lawman.

“Calm down, kid.” Brown laughed, set his leather satchel down, and pulled out a notebook and pencil. “I’m not here to bust _you_.” The smaller man peered at him, still dubious. “I’m just asking around ‘cos I understand the Circus has a new backer.”

“Samuel _Insull_?” Jiyong blurted, now completely flummoxed.

“That’s the one.” The Fed leaned on the pen railing and lit a roll-up; he offered one to Jiyong, who ignored it. “The authorities in Illinois are rather interested in his affairs, and I gotta say this one has them stumped: Sam Insull is a byword for the patronage of high culture, and here he is taking on a _circus_ – now, when everyone else in the country is shrinking back and sewing up their pockets tight. So the Government wants to know why he’s doing this – and how.”

“It’s his money, isn’t it?” said Jiyong. This was _weird_ : wasn’t Seunghyun always telling him the whole problem with Hoover was that he wouldn’t get the federal government involved in private businesses? If so, this made no sense – unless maybe there was an election coming up and the President wanted to look good. “He’s rich, and rich guys are all kooks – who knows why he’s investing in us?”

“I’m not sure who knows,” Brown explained patiently, exhaling smoke. “That’s why I’m asking around. Before anything official happens.”

“Well don’t ask me!” Jiyong began sweeping again with some force. “I dunno anything about the guy. You’ll hafta go talk to the agent, like I said; or the manager or the Corporation.” Let Terrell deal with this nosy bastard, there was nothing Jiyong cared to tell him.

“Is that a touch of the South Side I hear?” Brown’s smile grew wider, as if recognizing a kinsman. Jiyong didn’t stop the movements of his broom.

“Nope – I got an all-over accent, we’re on the road nine months a year.” He hoped he hadn’t turned pale.

“And you’re sure there’s nothing you can tell me about your sponsor? I heard he’s taken quite a shine to your act; maybe he’s mentioned some details of how he’s financing you in conversation?”

“ _No_.”

“Oh, well,” said Brown amicably. “I’ll do as you say and see the agent. If you think of something – any gossip you might’ve heard, any documents your bosses leave lying around – come talk to me, I’ll be dropping in and out.” Jiyong merely grunted: he had no intention of telling this man a damn thing on _principle_. He looked up through the dark hair falling into his eyes and saw Brown wander off along the animal pens, still smoking. As Jiyong watched the Fed stopped a menagerie man, offered him a roll-up, and they began bumping gums about something or other. It didn’t make _sense_ , he thought again: why would anyone looking for financial information bother to ask one of the lowest ranks of Cirkies? Hell, maybe he wasn’t a cop at all, just some guy trying to get tips on how Insull was investing so he could follow suit – hanging on the coattails of a business mogul. Jiyong shrugged to himself: it didn’t really matter, the man wasn’t gunna get any decent insights outta lowly menagerie men. He just hoped Brown wouldn’t come across Seunghyun – ‘cos _that_ might get him some answers he really didn’t expect.

 

* * *

 

Seunghyun had run into Insull directly only once, the day after Jiyong had been frantically disposing of his gifts. Jiyong didn’t know if it’d been an accident or if Insull had gone walkabout on purpose to have a gloat at his ex-bartender, his last encounter with whom was being screamed at through a door. Either way Seunghyun had squared right up to him and after one word from the older man seemed ready to go off without restraint – this according to Edgar, who’d come to ask Jiyong just what Seunghyun’s problem was.

“I thought he was gonna hit him,” the clown told Jiyong in a corner of the menagerie, where the din of the animals made private conversations somewhat more possible than elsewhere. “He was leanin’ right over the guy and he’s way bigger, y’know, so…”

“Is he?” asked Jiyong in surprise. He’d never noticed that Seunghyun was so much larger; Insull had always seemed to take up a good deal of space. Then, apprehensively: “What happened?”

“Well, the Money Man just stood there, like Seunghyun wasn’t anything. I dunno, he’s got a dry mug on him – like he’s never been surprised in his life.” Jiyong snorted. “But it’s hard to tell under the ‘tache. Anyway,” Edgar went on, “Seunghyun said _somethin’_ but I was on the other side of the yard. Then up comes the gaffer – I swear to God that fat bastard was _running_! – and hauls Seunghyun off to the agent’s car. Dunno what happened after that; I guess he got an earful. But I figured you oughta know so you can sweet-talk him when he gets back.”

“Fuck,” said Jiyong with a groan. “Thanks, Edgar. I’ll bring you something to drink later.”

“Oh, in that case, anytime.” The clown paused. “But what the hell’s gotten into that man of yours?”

“I dunno,” lied Jiyong. “He just…gets like this sometimes. Doesn’t like fat cats. But I’ll tell him to sheathe his claws on this one.” Still, thought Jiyong as Edgar went off to put his face on, on balance the encounter could’ve ended so much worse.

 

* * *

 

Insull came to watch him that night: even from his perch above Ring Three Jiyong could see him in the special star back seats beside Terrell. The manager was talking to him but Insull was staring up at Jiyong through opera glasses, too far away to see his expression but unmoving as if the aerialist was the only thing that existed in the entire crowded Big Top. Jiyong gave him a furious glance and pointedly spun away to face the cheaper seats – he’d rather anyone’s attention than that man’s. Jiyong had refused to visit Insull’s train car at night – he wasn’t an idiot, ‘business relationship’ or not – but their new investor was waiting for him when he stepped out of the dressing room.

“You don’t have a private area in which to change?” asked Insull, pacing sedately beside him; there were too many Cirkies around for Jiyong to simply storm off, it’d get back to Terrell and then…

“Course not,” said Jiyong shortly. “Like I never got naked in front of a bunch of people before!” If he’d thought that’d get an embarrassed or guilty response outta Insull, who’d been the cause of most of Jiyong’s youthful nudity, he was mistaken. The older man just shrugged.

“I’ll see to it that you at least have your own vanity table. You were always particular about your beauty routine.” Jiyong shook his head.

“If you really wanna help me out how about not provoking Seunghyun, huh?”

“Oh, he told you, did he?”

“No,” said Jiyong truculently, hopping over a guy-rope ‘cos Insull was taking up the only clear path between the tents.

“It was quite unintentional, I assure you.” Jiyong snorted. “What a temper that boy has,” Insull observed mildly.

“Is it any wonder!”

“I suppose not.” Jiyong was thankful for the pause as the older man carefully ascended the gentle slope separating the lot from the train. Insull stopped near the door of Jiyong’s car and gave him a long, level stare in the dim lamplight; evidently he wasn’t done. “…I mean no harm to the young man and I am no threat to him,” he stated at last. The hand not holding his cane reached out to touch his protégé’s wrist and Jiyong jerked his arm away on instinct. Insull looked impatient but also vaguely regretful. “The only reason I come here is to see you,” he told Jiyong. “Not to trouble whatever relationships you have, not to make anyone jealous. Just to look at you up there, and sometimes talk with you down here.” The moustache looked pensive. “I find it surprisingly…restful.”

“Yeah, right!” Jiyong exclaimed before lowering his voice in case Seunghyun was home already – he couldn’t handle another fight, not right after two busy shows.

“Everyone requires a place to find rest,” said Insull, apparently not caring a cent for the fact that _his_ peace was ruining Jiyong’s. The older man grudgingly added: “…Even I.” Jiyong paused at that: his sponsor appeared as chilly as ever, face calm and posture as straight and proud as it could be in a man his age. There was something, though, something that seemed different; perhaps it was ‘cos Jiyong himself had grown up. Whatever it was, it was bothersome enough that for a moment it made him reluctant to continue the argument.

“Just quit tugging Seunghyun’s tail,” he requested quietly instead. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t come watch the show, you’re paying for it – only _please_ don’t get in his way.”

Jiyong gratefully trudged up the steps to his own compartment after Insull had left him alone – without any more aggravating remarks, thank God – and found Seunghyun _was_ back. He was drinking, but at least out of a glass instead of straight from the bottle, and was reading what turned out to be the _Journal of Physical Chemistry_ ; Jiyong had seen copies lying around the car for a couple of months now. He figured Daesung must be sending them; their visit to Chicago last winter seemed to have reawakened Seunghyun’s intellectual curiosity. Jiyong had glanced through ‘em and not understood a blind word, not even when the other man eagerly tried to explain. He was glad his lover had something to keep his big brain busy; sometimes, though, it bothered Jiyong that there was at least one way in which he couldn’t fulfill Seunghyun. He wondered absently what was wrong with him: he’d never been this worried about such things before.

“You okay, Tabi?” he asked softly, taking a seat on the bunk beside him. He hadn’t gotten to speak to Seunghyun since Edgar had told him about that afternoon.

“You heard, huh?” The corners of that beautiful mouth turned down. “Don’t worry, the gaffer chewed me out but I’m still here. He made me _promise_ I won’t do it again.” Seunghyun looked like he wasn’t sure he could keep that promise if Insull got in his face one more time.

“Wanna talk about it?” offered Jiyong.

“No. Just hope he stays out of my way, or…” The younger man leaned into him, lips against his shoulder; he felt Seunghyun’s muscles move beneath him, the sense of lean strength both thrilling and troubling him: if Seunghyun did lose control he could hurt Insull _bad_. It wasn’t a thought that’d crossed Jiyong’s mind before, but something about the way his old keeper had looked tonight, gazing at Jiyong like he was a clear glass of water from some Fountain of Youth…and that nonsense talk about ‘rest’… Suddenly his Tabi with his tempers seemed extremely powerful in comparison, even though in terms of _social_ power Insull could crush them both like bugs.

“Doesn’t he seem smaller to you?” he asked without thinking. “I remember always looking up at him, but it’s like he’s no taller than me!” He hadn’t noticed it ‘til Edgar had put it in his mind, and walking beside Insull tonight it had almost shocked him.

“I don’t _wanna_ talk about him, I said.” Seunghyun scowled at nothing in particular and took a swig from his glass.

“I guess he just…projected height,” Jiyong continued with a frown, half to himself as Seunghyun clearly wasn’t in the mood. Of course, Jiyong had been shorter when they’d first met. And then, before he could stop himself, “…I wonder if anything’s wrong.”

“He’s _old_.” Seunghyun shut his journal with a slap and turned his glare on the smaller man. “Old enough to be your grandpa, the sick bastard. If you waste even a second of your time worrying about him then you’re an idiot.” Jiyong pursed his lips, ‘cos what if Seunghyun really _did_ think he was? He’d never been scared before that Seunghyun might tire of him but a lot had happened since the bigger man’s initial infatuation back at the House, and after all he was so damn _smart_ … “Don’t let your daddy issues stop you seeing what that skunk’s really after!” …And so damn aggravating.

“Who said I _was_ worried?!” exclaimed Jiyong. Seunghyun’s ears had gone red, and Jiyong realized he was truly bothered by the prospect of his concern. “Be easy, Tabi,” he said softly. “It was just an observation.” He reached down and set one hand over Seunghyun’s, and after a tense moment Seunghyun turned his palm up and twined their fingers together.

“…You’re not an idiot,” murmured Seunghyun, dropping the journal like it wasn’t important. “And I shouldn’t’ve said that about your dad.”

“Thanks.” Jiyong leaned over and kissed him, felt the usual rush of pleasure and sweetness as Seunghyun returned it ardently. He sank into the older man’s embrace and was soon incapable of worrying about anything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 39Insull was basically in control of the Chicago Opera and had the new venue designed and built the way he wanted it (because, as has been mentioned before, he was a massive control freak), with surprisingly egalitarian access and layout. It cost over $20 million. It opened just a few days after the Wall Street Crash (not great timing!) and was featured in _Time_ magazine. Insull had his own apartment on the 44th floor, which was reportedly the last word in taste and luxury. It’s in the shape of a huge chair (hence the real nickname ‘Insull’s Throne’) and at the time was one of the tallest buildings in Chicago; it’s still one of its major landmarks. I’ll be honest, it’s pretty damn impressive.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 40Insull was shot at by random crazies and people who disagreed with his business policies a couple of times while in his car, at least once while his wife was present. This is why he did actually end up making the acquaintance of Al Capone at one point (more on that later!).[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 41Seunghyun was right: Insull certainly did a lot of charity work during the Depression but Al Capone’s soup kitchen was one of the earliest. It served over 120,000 meals in total to hungry and homeless Chicagoans. (Ian Harvey. (n.d.) thevintagenews.com)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> The title song for this chapter is _'Rehearsin' For A Nervous Breakdown'_ , recorded by John Kirby in 1938.
> 
> So, how's Jiyong handling everything? How _should_ he handle it? (I don't even dare ask about Seunghyun ^^;)


	18. You Rascal, You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong receives some welcome and unwelcome gifts - and hears some things he'd really prefer not to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this turned into another long chapter; hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think :)

Insull stayed the whole weekend: it seemed that anytime Jiyong wasn’t actively at work or hiding someplace the older man would be inviting him to lunch or for coffee or just to talk. When the invitation came via a Cirkie or one of the skinny kids running errands Jiyong could get away with saying no and making himself scarce; when it came via Insull’s valet or a roustabout he’d be physically propelled there and simply deposited in front of him.

“Why’re you so persistent?!” demanded Jiyong. Any more of this and Seunghyun was gunna start banging on doors and might eventually tear the train apart to find him. When Seunghyun noticed, anyway – he was doing something educational with Jenny and Ezra this morning.

“Because I need to return to Chicago by tonight’s train,” Insull told him calmly, as if that was an excuse. “It may be a few days before I see you again.”

“What, is interfering with my business some kinda limited-time offer?” Jiyong saw his patron frown. “Why such a rush _now_?” he asked. “If you missed my fascinating self so bad what happened to the last six years?”

“You were in hiding. Now your company is available again I plan to make the most of it.” Insull paused as a knock at the car door announced a cookhouse boy with English tea and apple cake. The younger man glared at the cups ‘til the boy left.

“You coulda found me if you really wanted,” accused Jiyong as the door closed. “Why didn’t you?”

“Clearly you had no wish to be found.” The younger man gaped at him.

“So what makes you think I changed my mind?!” Insull gave him an indulgent shake of the head and proceeded to help himself to cake as if Jiyong wasn’t gearing up for a fight.

“You came back; you gave public performances. You must have known there was a danger of you being noticed.” He really hadn’t; or at least had been so eager to visit home that he’d ignored it. He’d been more worried about… “It was very rash of you,” Insull scolded, though it’d sure turned out nicely for _him_. “The Chicago Outfit did not simply _vanish_ when its leader was locked up.”

“I know,” said Jiyong with a private shiver at the thought of McGurn; he hoped Insull hadn’t noticed.

“I don’t want you acting like that anymore. So careless of your own wellbeing!”

“I wanted to see my family.” Jiyong scowled; why was he even bothering to explain himself? “And you can’t tell me what to do!”

“I shan’t,” agreed Insull comfortably, passing his irate charge a cup of tea.

“You _are_.”

“Not at all. I only wish to put you in the best position to keep yourself safe.” Insull leaned back, and any genuine concern he might’ve been displaying for his protégé vanished to be replaced by busybody determination. “I won’t constrain you, Jiyong; but I _will_ try to care for you – whether you like it or not.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong figured Insull might do better to worry a bit less about _him_ and more about himself: ‘cos almost as soon as the older man left that Fed Brown showed up again. This time it was right after the kinkers’ dinner; Seunghyun had disappeared to set up the evening fireworks, and Jiyong was sitting on a crate behind the cookhouse waiting impatiently for Timtam to show up so he could get the cash for the dwarf’s weekly quota of moonshine. When Brown strolled down the alley between the canvas of the cookhouse and the sideshow tent Jiyong began to get up, intending to leave immediately – he didn’t fancy another shifty conversation on a topic he knew nothing about.

“Hey, Jiyong, wait a minute.” The younger man stopped, head snapping round to face him.

“How’d you know my name?” he demanded, then regretted it: that was probably his paranoia at work. Brown could’ve asked any of the Cirkies, there was only one tattooed Asian on the books after all. He didn’t wanna have this guy get suspicious about _him_. But Brown just smiled.

“How do I know your _name_ , Jiyong Kwon?” He took a seat opposite the younger man, who had gone completely still. “I’m an IRS investigator, that’s how.” He tapped the notebook he was holding. “Ask how I know _everything_ about you.”

“I…” Jiyong gulped down a lump of fear. “What _is_ this?!” he said instead. “I thought you were looking into our backer’s affairs!”

“Yup,” replied Brown with a grin that’d turned amused. “And right now it’s his _affairs_ I’m interested in. I reckon you could help me quite a bit with that.” Jiyong felt the blood leave his face as the Fed leaned on the word: _what did he know_?

“What d’you mean?!” Brown gave his pale features a searching glance.

“Look, kid, I’m not here to harass you. My employers just want me to find out as much as possible about Sam Insull’s dealings with Sells-Floto – and anything else that could account for his financial movements.” He looked surprised. “Don’t you know his business practices have been under suspicion for months? Enough that Cook County _and_ the federal government are looking to have him up on charges? His holding companies are gonna be audited any day now.”

“No! What charges?” And what the hell did this have to do with _him_?

“Oh, banking irregularities, fraud, that kinda thing.” Jiyong stared at him open-mouthed: not so much ‘cos he thought Insull incapable of doing those things but at the idea that anyone – even the Feds – would attempt to take him down for it. The man had practically transformed this country, what did they think they could do?! More importantly:

“Why the hell would you think _I_ can help?” he demanded.

“Because you know him – and from what I hear, extremely well.”

“Bullshit,” lied Jiyong. “And even if I did, I don’t understand money stuff, there’d be nothing I could tell you!”

“You don’t have to understand it,” said Brown, still in that friendly tone. He patted the notebook. “Just tell me anything you remember and we’ll make sense of it. No need for the report to mention your name, but it’d really help us out. If you _don’t_ …” The smiled changed. “My employers could use what they know about you to ruin him in any case. And that wouldn’t do _your_ career any good.”

“…What do you know about me?” Jiyong whispered, hands clenched between his knees. Brown rolled up his crumpled sleeves in an effort to look disarming and shifted towards him on his crate.

“I know you were his mistress. I know he had you working in a brothel since you were a boy. And I know you’re the only reason he’s jeopardizing his position by taking on Sells-Floto now.”

“Bullshit,” said Jiyong again faintly. He had to get himself together: he was damned if he’d let this scumbag use his own past against him!

“C’mon, you don’t remember seven years of your life? Don’t recall a big fancy cat-house on Prairie?”

“How dare you!” said Jiyong, bridling a little theatrically to let the jerk know how put out he was by the question.

“Come on,” repeated Brown, unfazed. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke in the smaller man’s direction. “Why deny it? I dare say there’re a dozen working girls in Chicago who could swear to it you were whoring – _and_ who was keeping you.”

“This has _nothing_ to do with tax! And I’ve no obligation to talk about my private life.” Jiyong scowled at the man, less offended at being called a hooker than at the idea that he’d rat on an acquaintance to any Government stooge.

“It was hardly private,” countered Brown. “He loved showing you off, didn’t he? Half the Opera crowd knows you, by face if not by name.”

It was true. For a minute Jiyong was quiet, reflecting on Insull’s self-assurance – you could go so far as to say arrogance – in parading him at expensive hotels, first nights and trips to the Ballet. Unlike McGurn and even Seunghyun, Insull had loved seeing him in the spotlight. In hindsight it seemed reckless but his boss back then had been nigh-invulnerable, a titan no-one ‘til Capone had dared go up against; and more, thought Jiyong almost unwillingly, those glamorous nights had been sorta wonderful; at Insull’s side he’d felt like a _star_. He recalled the sensation with a kind of panic, unnerved at the echo of that particular wash of pleasure. There’d never been anything quite like it since. The applause of the Big Top audience caused something close to it – the cooch show wasn’t far off, either – and Seunghyun’s gaze was a feeling far more intimate; but none of those fed his vanity in the way Insull’s prideful display of his beauty had done. And Jiyong was still very vain.

Brown was watching him thoughtfully, as if his face was a book that might be read. Jiyong shook off his nostalgia and glared at him.

“I’m done talking. You better take your rumors someplace else.”

“You sure you want that, Princess?” asked Brown; he didn’t look even a little bit put out. “Refusing to assist in an investigation, this could get pretty serious for you. If this case gets far enough we could have you subpoenaed.”

“ _Get lost_!” said Jiyong, who didn’t know what that last word meant but recognized the bullying tactic perfectly well. Brown opened his mouth again and leaned towards him, then shut it as a large shadow fell over them. With some apprehension Jiyong saw it was Gough. That could mean more trouble: the strongman had been as convinced as this guy seemed that Jiyong was a hooker, and if _he_ decided to get involved…

“This jerk botherin’ you?” demanded Gough to his surprise; he was frowning down at the investigator. Jiyong looked up at the huge man and wondered if it was worth saying yes – if he’d want a return on the favor. They hadn’t really spoken for years, not since…well. He decided he’d cross that bridge when he came to it ‘cos he really _was_ done with Brown and a bit of intimidation might help keep him off his back.

“Yeah,” he said firmly, and gave Gough one of his smiles. “Yeah, I’m sick of talking.” The strongman nodded and took a heavy step forward. Jiyong couldn’t cover his smirk when Brown got hurriedly to his feet and tucked his notepad back in his case.

“Well, I’ve got someplace to be. See you around. Oh – and if you were thinking it’d be a good idea to mention this to the man, I wouldn’t: you might find yourself on the receiving end of your own legal trouble.” He gave Jiyong a carefully ambiguous glance and strode off, suit coat flapping untidily.

“…Thanks,” said Jiyong, wanting to retreat as well; he took a careful step back along the canvas alley, didn’t want to seem like he was _inviting_ something.

“Cirkies come first,” said Gough gruffly, registering the smaller man’s nerves. “That’s the rule. Don’t need a return on it – I’d’ve done it no matter who you are.”

“Okay…” Jiyong tried a smile because Gough was right: the code was the code and no-one took kindly to outsiders asking rude questions. The strongman stared at him for a minute, then turned on his heel and strode away. So now Jiyong was left with more worries: what, if anything, Gough had meant by that look, and what Brown might let slip about his past. He decided he needed to talk to Seunghyun.

 

* * *

 

“Yeah, I’ve seen him around,” said Seunghyun the next day through the kerchief covering his nose. He paused to tap gunpowder through a funnel into a tube to make the effects for Cliff the Cannonball’s number. “I thought he was some reporter doing a piece on the John Robinson merger.” Jiyong shook his head anxiously.

“He says he’s a Fed! An investigator…” The older man stopped what he was doing, laid the chemicals down carefully, and tugged the cloth off his face.

“Wait, what?” Jiyong was almost relieved to see him look as nervy as he himself felt; as well he might, being the resident Circus bootlegger. “What kind of investigator?”

“He’s been asking me about Mr. Insull – about his businesses.” Seunghyun’s expression changed instantly: still intent but _eager_. “I dunno what it’s about,” hurried on Jiyong before his lover could start ranting. “He was talking a lotta bullshit.”

“…Exactly what did he say?”

“I don’t _know_ , I said.” The smaller man frowned at Seunghyun ‘cos he didn’t have to sound so _pleased_. “Something about stocks and ‘banking irregularities’ or some kinda fraud…”

“Really!” Seunghyun drew Jiyong down beside him, moving the powder aside to keep the air clear. “What’d you tell him?”

“Nothing!” Jiyong yanked his arm back, offended. “You think I’m some sorta snitch?!” Seunghyun grunted sourly.

“It’s not snitching to speak the truth about that old bastard. I just _bet_ he’s into all sorts of shady shit.” He looked like he was having _ideas_.

“Like what?!” This wasn’t what Jiyong had wanted to talk about.

“He was running a cat-house, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah…” Jiyong pursed his lips, frustrated. “But he took the House on as a favor, he was only doing it ‘cos his ego can’t stand to let things fail. And it’s not like he was laundering money through it!”

“You don’t know that.”

“…That’s true,” admitted the younger man; he really didn’t, his old owner’s financial affairs were of small interest to him: all that’d mattered back then was that Insull was rich and indulgent. “And you know what? I don’t care.” Because this wasn’t about Insull right now: Jiyong might be selfish but he was far more worried about _himself_. Seunghyun gave a ‘tch’ of disapproval.

“You oughta care; this could be our chance to get him off our backs. They say by next year we’ll have a new President: and Franklin D. Roosevelt is _certainly_ interested in what bigwig scumbags like Insull are doing behind their companies’ doors. With enough evidence they could put him away for good.” But Jiyong didn’t care about politics and it sure wouldn’t convince him to talk – he couldn’t put the future of the Circus in danger by deliberately selling out its main backer to the Government! And it was more than that, he realized in some confusion: he didn’t _want_ to. Was it his principles, he wondered, or just ‘cos Seunghyun was being such a contrary ass right now?

“No way, Tabi, I’m not telling that guy a single thing! Not after how he spoke to me.” He could tell Seunghyun had been getting up steam for an argumentative reply, but now he blinked and took Jiyong’s knee in a firm grip.

“How _did_ he speak to you?” There, _that_ was a tone of voice Jiyong liked better: concern and protectiveness.

“First time he seemed like a regular old official,” he explained with a frown. “He told me they’re doing background work ‘cos Cook County wants to open a fraud case; I dunno why so don’t bother asking. I said I didn’t know anything about the money matters of the Circus and I had nothing to tell him.” Seunghyun’s expression stated quite clearly what he thought about _that_ , but Jiyong ignored him and continued. “Today, though…I dunno, he was so _pushy_. I told him again I didn’t know anything about Mr. Insull, and he…he pretty much called me a liar.” Seunghyun’s grip on his knee tightened. “He knows everything about the House, Tabi – about Mr. Insull and me and what I did there! And the way he talked about it, he sounded more like a dirty P.I. than a proper G-man.” Jiyong took a deep breath as the anger tried to rise again.

“…Did he threaten to tell people?” asked Seunghyun; his voice had turned low and dangerous, and Jiyong took his arm, comforted.

“Not exactly. Not yet, anyway. But he said if _I_ don’t tell what I know they could make big trouble for me!”

“They could,” Seunghyun said flatly. “That’s one more reason why you oughta talk. Privately, before they try and strong-arm you.” He placed a gloved finger over the smaller man’s lips to silence him. “But if you don’t want to it’s your choice. No-one has the right to force you, not me and least of all _this_ jerk.” Jiyong calmed down a bit. “What’d you say his name was?”

“Jake Brown.”

“Brown… You want me to talk to him?”

“He might not come back around,” said Jiyong, thinking hopefully of how their confrontation had ended. Of course, he wasn’t gunna mention Gough to Seunghyun – the list of things he couldn’t talk about in front of his lover seemed to be growing daily. “But if he does turn up again…maybe. Let’s wait and see.” He wasn’t actually sure he wanted Seunghyun and the investigator to meet; not ‘cos he was worried about Seunghyun having an episode but because Jiyong was scared of what his beloved might choose to say. Oh, he trusted Tabi to the death with his own secrets; but not for one minute with Insull’s.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t just Brown and Insull Seunghyun was angry at, Jiyong came to understand in the days that followed: he was very disappointed in Jiyong. Time and again the older man would point out the many benefits – legal, patriotic, and personal – of ratting on their old boss to the Feds. Seunghyun said Insull was almost certainly involved in shady business dealings; Jiyong in fact agreed with that because _everyone_ was: certainly everyone who’d held on to their fortunes after the Crash. Seunghyun said it wasn’t fair that he should get away with it just ‘cos he was rich and upper-class; Jiyong thought that was his lover’s anti-Establishment streak showing, and said so. Seunghyun managed to refrain from calling Jiyong a gold-digger, but only just. Jiyong remained adamant: he wouldn’t tell – it could destroy the Circus. And so Seunghyun was unhappy again.

Jiyong refused to let him sulk. He spent as much time with him as possible and could usually sweeten him up; after all, Seunghyun loved him. They slept tangled together as usual, wrote their regular letters together that week and walked to the nearest post office, endured the stares of the suburban locals together as they went inside. Jiyong paid for his own post to Dami and Soomin: his youngest sister and Daesung were braving the Dust Bowl somewhere in South Dakota so their mail went to the University. At the next counter he was surprised to see Seunghyun dig out three letters. He only ever wrote his parents and Daesung, and Jiyong had seen those last night.

“Who else’re you writing to?” asked Jiyong curiously; Youngbae, maybe? Seunghyun had said he was doing very well, had a sweetheart of his own and was thinking of proposing at the end of the year.

“No-one,” said Seunghyun, and quickly shoved the letters across the counter. Jiyong frowned, but decided he was keeping back too much information of his own these days to push it. Still, something prompted him to take the older man’s arm as they left the post office; as if holding Seunghyun physically near would keep him close in every respect.

 

* * *

 

“You’re moving up to Ring One,” Terrell informed Jiyong completely out of the blue the next day, after yelling for him from the agent’s tent as soon as they unloaded at Decatur, Illinois. “Fred’s already rearranged the lineup so check the details with him.” For a second Jiyong’s heart leapt, he’d thought any kinda promotion these days was out of the question, especially for someone like him! Then it sank again.

“Why?” he asked bluntly. Terrell twiddled his gold rings and took a huge puff on his cigar.

“Why d’you think?” Goddammit, would Insull never stop interfering? Observing his artist’s expression, Terrell clicked his tongue. “You think you can afford to look a gift horse in the mouth? The entertainment world has worked this way throughout history, you imagine you’re the only kinker whose charm has furthered their career?” Of course Jiyong knew that. “Anyway,” said the manager a bit more kindly, “you _are_ pretty good, and the rubes like your act. It’s unusual to promote a colored soloist so far…” Jiyong snorted. “…But we live in unusual times.”

“What about the other kinkers? Half of ‘em dislike me already!”

“If you work hard and don’t act like a diva they’ll get over it; they won’t want to offend our backer’s pet project.”

“…All right,” sighed Jiyong, ‘cos in terms of troublesome gifts this one was less unwelcome than a Tiffany jewel: Ring One meant more to him than a diamond. “Thanks.”

“Yes indeed, thanks. And you’d better give some of that gratitude to your sponsor.” Did Terrell just drop a wink at him?! Jiyong stared at him mutinously and backed out of the tent: the man could hint all he liked, Jiyong would never be _that_ grateful to Insull.

When he got back to their compartment there was a stylish country-gentleman’s suit on the bunk and a pair of handmade leather boots underneath it – they must’ve arrived in the mail or come down by courier in the night. Seunghyun was sat next to them scowling.

“I didn’t ask for it!” exclaimed Jiyong, picking up the presents and dumping them in a corner with a slight pang of regret ‘cos he did miss nice clothes and these _were_ practical.

“I know.” Ahh, now he was sulking and Jiyong would have to calm him down before breaking the news of his promotion. Did Insull know he was giving his favorite this much extra work?!

 

* * *

 

The industrialist turned up again that day: his visits were getting more frequent, though he always had work with him – when he wasn’t bothering Jiyong he was going over books and papers or monopolizing Terrell’s radiophone. Jiyong had been wondering whether to ask about Brown and what he’d been saying regarding Insull’s business affairs; but first the old man was gunna get a scolding.

“You look tired,” said Insull as Jiyong took a seat in front of his desk; it looked like he’d brought half his office to his train car.

“I _am_.” The younger man pressed his lips together and tried to find a way to say this in a halfway civil fashion. “Look, if you gotta come around – it’s your right, after all – can’t you do it without _giving_ me things?” He was genuinely grateful for being promoted to Ring One, though it was indeed getting him dirty looks from some of the other kinkers who didn’t appreciate the new lineup that’d been thrust on them before the matinée. Anything more personal caused him nothing but trouble. Insull gave him a blank stare.

“Then how do you propose I benefit you?”

“You’re supporting the Circus,” Jiyong reminded him. “Keeping my job safe, and that’s all I really _need_.” The older man didn’t exactly look satisfied with this, like he couldn’t give a damn about Sells-Floto. “I’ll work my hardest to see you don’t regret it,” Jiyong said, ‘cos after what that ass Brown had told him perhaps Insull could actually do with a successful venture, even if his primary goal was to drive Jiyong crazy. “We all will.” Insull grunted as if such a consideration hadn’t crossed his mind. He showed no signs of a man being investigated – did he even know? But he reached out and patted Jiyong’s arm.

“Very well. Professional presents only. I trust flowers are acceptable?”

“…Sure,” said Jiyong even as he drew back his arm, because the stars measured one another’s popularity by how many bouquets piled up in the dressing room. For a little while longer he sat there, watching the older man stare absently at one of the paintings on the car wall. Jiyong didn’t trust Insull’s silences at all ‘cos it usually meant he was thinking real hard about something, and right now that was probably _him_. Before Insull came back to life, he left.

 

* * *

 

The next jump was to Terre Haute, Indiana; it was now the fourth week of the season but to Jiyong it felt like goddamn years. He’d finished up the evening show happy that they’d had a whole day without a visit from their backer and that they wouldn’t have to roll out tonight – it was a two-day stop. When he tramped into his compartment, however, he saw there was no escaping Insull’s attentions. On one of the shelves, behind the safety bar, was a brand new radio: Deco cathedral style in walnut and bakelite, one of the handsomest Jiyong had ever seen. It was already connected to the car’s ac power, and when he switched it on it was tuned to the sweet sounds of jazz. In front of the radio was a small card. Jiyong rolled his eyes and opened it: _A final gift_ , it said in Insull’s meticulous handwriting. He sat down on the bunk, fumed for a bit, but soon got lost in the music.

“I’m keeping it,” he said when Seunghyun walked in and immediately noticed the radio. For a moment he saw his lover’s jaw tighten; then Seunghyun sat down beside him and ruffled his hair.

“…I know you love music. And it’s not something you’d splash out on yourself.” He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “It was actually thoughtful.” Jiyong thought he heard him mutter something like ‘sly old coot’ under his breath, but when he turned away from the radio Seunghyun was smiling at him.

“Dance with me, Tabi,” exclaimed Jiyong as a lively Harlem tune from the previous year came on.

“Do I have to?” Seunghyun always complained, but they hadn’t had a chance to dance alone in years so he didn’t resist when Jiyong pulled him up. Soon Jiyong was grinning, even though the song turned out to be a pretty violent promise of revenge by a jealous lover upon another man. Not exactly tactful, but Seunghyun was concentrating too hard on his steps to notice the lyrics. Jiyong pulled him close and guided him, Seunghyun’s hands around his waist; then, before it could get any hotter, there was a knock on the door.

“You two weren’t screwin’, right?” inquired Timtam as a breathless Jiyong pulled it open. At a shake of his head the dwarf and about eight more people piled in through the storage compartment. “Heard the music,” was his only excuse. Behind him Edgar’s youngest brother held up a bottle, and someone else soda and paper cups. Even Flora was there – she did love her music.

“Nice radio,” she said admiringly before Ed the Ostrich cranked it up and pulled her over to dance. Edgar began mixing drinks and badgering Seunghyun to produce more bottles from wherever he’d stashed them.

“Party’s here, deviants!!” announced Timtam, who was obviously pre-hammered, clambering up on the bunk to yell outta the window. Seunghyun just shrugged his shoulders at Jiyong helplessly and started laughing. Jiyong grabbed him again and soon their section of the car was swinging; the younger man downed one of the knockout cocktails, wrapped an arm round Seunghyun’s neck, and for the first time in years silently toasted his thanks to Mr. Insull.

 

* * *

 

His gratitude didn’t last long, not when the man continued to turn up and bug him. Seunghyun enjoyed the radio almost as much as Jiyong did, but every other interaction the younger man had with Insull cut his personal fuse shorter and shorter. It got to the point where Jiyong was even a little relieved when his Tabi would distract himself by burying his head in his scholarly journals or doing small experiments with his assistant in the lots on the far side of the train. He didn’t particularly care for the upswing in Seunghyun’s alcohol intake – the last time that had happened it’d almost caused a disaster – but he supposed it wasn’t too bad when the older man was out drinking socially with his rigger friends.

In the meantime Jiyong tried to make the best of things. He was enjoying his elevated status as a Ring One kinker; one of the equestrians had even suggested they get up a small act together like he’d done with Tom Mix. Maybe the man had only invited him ‘cos he knew their backer had a soft spot for his Korean aerialist and thought he could advance his own career by teaming up with him. Still, it was nice to be asked, and the guy was quite right: if Insull felt like it he _would_ help.

Jiyong had discovered that even though he’d banned his sponsor from any more material gifts, he would happily lean on Insull for favors that went to other people instead of himself. If a friend or colleague or even some poor rail-rider needed a handout or a leg-up he could go to the older man and bat his eyelashes ‘til Insull agreed to do more or less whatever he asked. Insull would grumble and tell his protégé he’d rather be giving _him_ presents; but Jiyong was so clearly happy when he granted these people favors that he almost always caved in. In return Jiyong gave the man the bare minimum of his company, which basically meant turning up at least half the times he was summoned and not grousing so much when he did. Very soon, though, he found himself in need of more personal help.

The first time wasn’t for himself – not only himself, anyway. It was for _Seunghyun_. They’d just pulled in to Connersville, Indiana when the sound of motorcars and raised voices in the early morning woke Jiyong with a jolt: a raid! They hadn’t had one since the Crash in ‘29, the cops had had better things to do and no-one was expecting one now. The Prohis before had mostly ambushed them on the return route from Canada and they weren’t due up there ‘til July. Jiyong cursed softly to himself, hoping Seunghyun hadn’t gotten complacent with his stashes – if anyone pointed the finger at the older man as the chief supplier of liquor, with his skin he’d be pinched and locked up without question!

Seunghyun’s hearing wasn’t as sharp as Jiyong’s and he was still asleep. Jiyong paused for only a second before carefully climbing down from the bunk and darting outta the compartment in his pajamas. The sun was barely over the horizon, the Fuzz had really planned to surprise them: Jiyong could see cop cars pulled up to the lot and the figures of federal agents down near Terrell’s place. He hopped to the other side of the train and ran silently on bare feet towards them. He had no intention of encountering them; instead he pulled up short and knocked on the door of Insull’s car.

“It’s a raid!” he whispered when several seconds later Insull pulled it open and gave him an inquiring look – Jiyong had banked on the fact that his old keeper barely slept, and wasn’t disappointed now.

“Yes, I know. Just routine, I expect.” Insull beckoned him up the steps. “Why are you so agitated?”

“Because…” started Jiyong, wondering how to put it diplomatically. Insull’s expression turned knowing.

“Ah. Because that boy of yours has his supplies on the train.” Jiyong nodded. “Unwise,” said Insull, though Jiyong didn’t know how else he expected Seunghyun to do it. The older man waited a beat, then asked: “Do you wish me to make the problem go away?”

“ _Please_ ,” said Jiyong urgently. He hated saying that word to this man but it _was_ an emergency! Insull nodded and motioned Jiyong to the pretty little sofa inside before donning a dressing gown and shoes and descending the steps with his cane. He shut the door, so all Jiyong could do was watch silently outta the window as Insull strolled along to Terrell’s car, where the manager was arguing sleepily with what was most likely the agent in charge. They both quit jawing as the elderly tycoon reached them. Then came one of Insull’s monologues and some pointed gesturing with the cane – the older man wielded it more like a precise weapon than a walking aid. The agent said something, Insull said something. This was followed by nods all round, and to Jiyong’s extreme relief the Fed strode away and began calling his men off. One of them asked him a confused question and he flapped his hand dismissively; a minute later they piled into their automobiles and drove back towards town.

“There,” said Insull coolly, once he’d made his leisurely return. He changed into slippers and took a seat on the sofa. Jiyong hastily got up.

“…What’d you _tell_ them?” he asked, mystified. Insull’s moustache looked smug.

“It doesn’t matter. Your young man is quite safe – I hope that restores your peace.”

“Yes, Sir. _Thank you_ ,” said Jiyong, hovering near the door. He was deeply grateful. At the same time he wasn’t sure he could say he was at peace: ‘cos what might Insull want in return for it, this favor that’d saved the neck of a man who was nothing but an obstacle to him? Jiyong waited anxiously to hear what might be proposed, and thought about how he could gracefully turn it down. But Insull suggested nothing.

“Off you go, then,” he told Jiyong after a minute of fraught silence on the younger man’s part. “You can tell the boy he has no need to worry.”

“I’m not gunna tell him anything!” exclaimed Jiyong without thinking about it: if Seunghyun found out who’d protected him he’d be livid. Better he put it down to simple good luck. Insull raised his eyebrows.

“As you like.” Jiyong opened the door, then paused.

“…I _am_ grateful, Sir.” Insull only nodded, so he left and hurried back to Seunghyun, who was miraculously still asleep. Jiyong snuggled down next to him, comforted; still, he couldn’t shake the idea that he’d soon be called upon to repay this very personal good deed.

 

* * *

 

But no such call came. Jiyong was suspicious at first: what was Insull up to? Later, though, he began to entertain the idea that his sponsor truly intended to fulfill his promise to act in Jiyong’s best interests. And so a few days later he dared ask for another important favor. He’d received a letter from Dami in the mail sack the previous morning when they’d arrived at Springfield, Ohio, and what he read had scared him rigid: _Mom thinks she’ll lose her job_ , his sister had written. _And their landlord hasn’t lowered the rent like the others have done; I don’t know how they’ll be able to pay it_. The anxiety had clutched at Jiyong’s stomach; even with Insull’s backing his larger financial and familial worries hadn’t gone away, and lately there’d been little time for Seunghyun to _make_ them vanish using their old erotic tricks – either that or one or the other of them wasn’t in the mood. Jiyong _would not_ ask Insull for a handout; but wasn’t it natural that he was the first person he’d turn to for advice?

“…And that’s it,” he explained after summarizing the letter and his family’s financial state. Insull, who was looking rather tired from his morning train ride to Ohio, perked up at the prospect of a financial riddle.

“If you wish them to stay there the safest thing would be to purchase the apartment,” he said after a bit of scribbling; he showed Jiyong the amount he estimated it would take for the initial outlay. And then, to Jiyong’s lack of surprise: “Do you need money?”

“No!” announced Jiyong, and felt the weight of the diamonds in their pouch around his neck. “I’ve got enough.” It’d be his entire savings – from his winter engagements and his regular pay, going all the way back to his cooch show days; but it was worth it. Insull didn’t press him and Jiyong was grateful for that. “But is it even possible?” he asked. He wasn’t clear on the laws that tried to prevent non-whites from buying their own property in various parts of the country, but from what Seunghyun told him he knew they existed.

“It _is_ possible,” said Insull, like he was an expert. “One of my organizations supports the training of African-American medical professionals, and part of that is helping them buy a practice.” Maybe he _was_ an expert.

“What d’you think I should do, then, Sir?” asked Jiyong earnestly. “I wanna make sure they’re settled, I just…dunno how it works.”

Insull pondered this for a bit, with an expression that told Jiyong there were people he _taught_ to do things and people who oughta have things done _for_ them ‘cos they couldn’t be trusted not to screw it up. He was pretty sure which one his sponsor thought he was. But to his surprise Insull gave him a minute smile and proceeded to explain. Jiyong listened carefully to such phrases as ‘professional mediator’, ‘safe bank’, ‘down-payment’ and ‘fixed-rate mortgage’; but when the stream of instructions stopped he found he’d instead been watching the confident movements of Insull’s lined hands as he outlined the process by which a Korean person might buy property in Chicago during the worst recession in history[42].

“…Right,” he said. Insull sighed.

“Would you like me to do it? I very easily could.”

“No thank you,” said Jiyong stubbornly, and not only out of pride: his dad would lose his mind if he found out the man to whom he owed the favor was the one who’d led his son down the path of sin. Jiyong knew deep down that there was almost no chance now of a reconciliation between himself and his parent, but he couldn’t stop himself caring for him. Insull calmly reached over and uncapped his fountain pen, the same beautiful gold one Jiyong had practiced his handwriting with all those years ago.

“Then I shall write it down and you can give it to your young man. I dare say he can assist you.” Jiyong blinked and thanked him. A non-critical comment about Seunghyun? Insull must be going soft.

 

“Why did you go to him first?” demanded Seunghyun when Jiyong showed him the instructions in Insull’s neatly printed hand. The smaller man frowned; what was with _that_ tone?

“‘Cos he knows about finances and property and I knew he could help me! It’s not like I took money from him,” cajoled Jiyong; Seunghyun looked like he wanted to tear the list in two. “But I don’t understand it all, so I _need_ you – you’re gunna help me, right?”

“…Yes,” said Seunghyun after a pause. “I’ll write to this guy he mentioned and we’ll get the ball rolling.” He exhaled slowly. “I know you’re worried, darling,” he told Jiyong more gently. “Only…don’t you see that the more you ask him for help the more hold he has over you?”

“This is too important,” retorted Jiyong. “And it didn’t cost him anything to do. It was just…nice of him.” He didn’t mention the liquor raid.

“Don’t kid yourself.” Seunghyun dug around in a drawer ‘til he found a sheet of letter paper and a pen. He _was_ gunna help, thought Jiyong, relieved. But the set of the older man’s shoulders was stiff and unhappy. “You heard what that Brown character said,” Seunghyun reminded him darkly as he began to write. “Sounds like Insull’s losing control of his empire – and he thinks he can make himself feel better by controlling _you_.”

“I don’t think that’s actually true,” said Jiyong. But as he said it another small weight added itself to the stack of anxieties upon his shoulders, because he was beginning to wonder if it _might_ be.

 

* * *

 

Brown certainly came around again, and again, talking to whoever would give him the time of day but obviously aiming for people who knew Jiyong; and every time he had something worse to say about Insull. Pretty much everything he hinted about the man’s character and his treatment of Jiyong was true, though Jiyong didn’t say so. The money stuff he was less sure of: Jiyong hadn’t noticed anything that’d point to a change in his sponsor’s fortunes other than his look of weariness, and that might just be his age. On the other hand, why would this detective be so persistent if there wasn’t _something_ going on? Jiyong figured he might as well try and use the Depression argument – and Insull’s good business sense – as the latest weapon in his campaign to get the older man to quit spoiling him.

“You won’t make any money outta this,” he stressed, the next time Insull summoned him to lunch. “Not compared to what you made off me at the House. You oughta be saving like everyone else.”

“I knew P.T. Barnum personally, you know[43],” Insull told him out of nowhere. “I learned a great deal about publicity tactics from the way he ran his circus, so you let me be the judge of how to generate profit.” Jiyong reminded himself not to let Insull keep surprising him, but this particular nugget of information was making it difficult. Still, he pressed on.

“I’ll never be a star, not like Lillian Leitzel, anyway. I’ll never work Center Ring at The Big One; you’re wasting your time spending this much attention on me.” He spoke as logically as possible, appealing to the businessman he knew Insull was above everything else.

“That’s surprisingly modest of you.” Insull raised a dry eyebrow.

“You get to be a big star ‘cos they put you in movies and magazines,” explained Jiyong, rising above that comment. “Because you do product ads and public campaigns.” If anyone knew about the power of public image it was Insull, who’d been on the cover of _Time_ no less than thrice and had used it to hawk his corporations’ stocks to anyone who had a spare dollar.

“And?”

“And they’ll never give that to someone with this skin.” Jiyong pushed his sleeve up. “I’m not just a Korean, I’m a sideshow.” Insull sighed through his nose at the sight of Jiyong’s tattoos.

“Nevertheless, I could _make_ you a star if I chose to. In Chicago, anyway. You would have no shortage of management offers then, and you’d be able to support yourself in the style to which you were once used.” Jiyong refrained from asking whose fault it’d been that he’d lost his _last_ manager.

“I don’t need it,” he stated instead. “I just wanna be a good artist.” He didn’t want to take anything from Insull he didn’t have to; besides, there really _were_ bigger things Insull oughta be concerned with than personally promoting circus acts. The older man’s eyebrows rose higher.

“That’s rather unlike you,” said Insull thoughtfully. “But I suppose I applaud your diffidence.”

“It took a bit of getting used to, that’s all,” Jiyong admitted, once he’d made a guess as to what exactly that meant.

“What’s that?” The younger man squirmed a little ‘cos this was getting personal again; but Insull was just watching him evenly out of those cool gray eyes.

“The idea that I’m not special.” A beat, and the moustache twitched.

“…You foolish boy,” said Insull; and left it at that. Jiyong wanted to ask how the heck he was meant to take _that_ , but wisely clammed up – odds were good he wouldn’t like the answer. He just hoped Insull would take what he’d said to heart.

 

* * *

 

“Can we talk when you’re done?” asked Seunghyun, popping his head through the canvas flap of the stable tent. It was a brisk Sunday morning and Jiyong and the equestrian were taking an experimental tour of the man’s bareback mounts to see which horse would be least likely to kick Jiyong in the nuts and tread on him if he tried to get near it. So far they weren’t having a lotta luck but the rider seemed to think that if they could just get acclimatized they’d quit wanting to bite him. Jiyong personally wasn’t optimistic: the Tonys had been special, imbued with Tom Mix’s magical touch. How likely was he to find that again?

He thankfully backed away from the horses, who were all rolling their eyes at him, and retreated toward Seunghyun. His lover didn’t seem to be grumpy for once and was smiling down at him in his shirt-sleeves.

“Thought you were doing something with Ezra this morning,” said Jiyong. Seunghyun bent and kissed him as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Changed my mind. Wanna have lunch in town?”

“Sure!” Jiyong took his arm and waved at the equestrian, who raised a hand in resignation at ever getting his charges and the younger man to make friends.

They walked beside the train tracks toward the town; the fields and copses were kinda yellow from lack of rain but the countryside smelled nice and the sun was growing warm, seeping into Jiyong’s slender bones. He continued hugging Seunghyun’s arm. He wanted to ask what had prompted this good mood – it’d been ages since they went on a date – but didn’t care to take the risk in case he put his foot in it.

“…Jiyong, I’m sorry,” Seunghyun piped up after a good ten minutes of silence. The smaller man glanced up at him, surprised.

“What for?” What had Seunghyun done?!

“I finally met Jake Brown this morning.” The older man set his jaw and tightened his hold on Jiyong’s arm. Jiyong experienced several seconds of panic as he tried to figure out why his lover was apologizing for talking to the Fed: oh, God, had he _told_ the creep something? “No,” continued Seunghyun, meeting his eyes and reading the fears within them. “He didn’t get anything out of me. But I understand what you mean now: the way he spoke about _you_.” His face was dark with anger, but not towards Jiyong.

“You…you think he knows about us?” asked Jiyong.

“I just bet he does; why else would he needle me like he did?”

“Didja hurt him?” Obviously Brown didn’t know everything, including Seunghyun’s reputation for flying off the handle when provoked. He wasn’t sure what he wanted Seunghyun to say to that question.

“…No. I wanted to…when he called you a _whore_.” The bigger man almost snarled the word, Jiyong knew he’d always hated it. “But I didn’t: I don’t wanna get you in any more trouble.”

“You see it now, right?” said Jiyong, stopping on the dusty path to slide both arms around his waist and look up at him. Seunghyun brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes and nodded. “Why I don’t wanna talk to him – about _anything_.”

“You oughta talk to _someone_ ,” retorted his partner obstinately. “The Government _ought_ to be up in private corporations’ business, it’s the only way stop them running crooked. Besides, the son of a bitch is right, if the Feds really think you could help with the fraud case and you won’t they could make things difficult for you; and I don’t want that! But no, not to Brown. Not unless he learns some goddamn manners.” He touched Jiyong’s cheek. “So I’m sorry I tried to make you; and sorry I’ve been a grouch.”

“Tabi, it doesn’t matter,” said Jiyong, and gave him a gummy smile full of sunshine. It was so rare to get an apology from anyone these days, and hearing Seunghyun’s earnest tone and seeing the look of protective devotion in those great big eyes was enough to make him forgive any past moodiness. “Say, what if we don’t make it to town?” he asked slyly. “Think you can hold off on food ‘til after the matinée?” Seunghyun’s cheeks went pink and he nodded. Jiyong took his hand, peered around for a secluded spot of country, and led him off the path into the trees.

 

* * *

 

Seunghyun was sweet and kind to him the rest of the afternoon, and that night the train rattled them onwards while they slept wrapped around each other, worn out from the fresh air and physical exercise and the peace of making up. Despite this Jiyong figured he’d have to ask Seunghyun for one of their special sessions soon. It’d been so long since he’d had all the worries tormented out of his head, and when he woke up there they all were: Seunghyun’s happiness, the expense of his little nephew’s care and raising, Soomin’s safety in the wilds of the Midwest, the agonizingly slow process of buying his parents’ home – it wasn’t progressing well, the mediator had only just agreed to look at their case – and of course Insull, the problem that refused to quit. When Jiyong finished the matinée the next afternoon, there was Insull’s valet-slash-bodyguard waiting to scoop him up.

“Today?” said Jiyong, slumping loutishly against his sponsor’s desk. “I actually had plans!” After his Tabi’s sweetness yesterday he was in less of a mood than ever to put up with Insull’s whims.

“Plans such as what?” inquired Insull, sounding not at all curious. He stared at Jiyong from his comfortable sofa and turned the page of a tedious-looking document.

“Was gunna go for a walk.” Jiyong didn’t add ‘with Seunghyun’, he didn’t need to.

“I’m sure your young man can give you as much exercise as you require later,” said Insull calmly, the closest he ever got to bawdy talk outside the bed itself. Jiyong huffed and looked out of the window: there were Flora and Ed and his girlfriend sitting and talking happily outside, just visible on the edge of the far-off back yard. It wasn’t a particularly fine day, it’d been on the verge of rain all morning, but Jiyong wished very much that he was there instead of here. It seemed the better he and Seunghyun got along the more he resented his old keeper’s company.

“Don’t you have anything more useful to do than make innuendos at me?” he asked absently, still peering at his friends having a good time without him – and Seunghyun, he’d know just what’d happened; he’d have given up waiting by now and was probably teaching Jenny how to make akvavit, his latest project.

“One of my many skills is multitasking,” Insull informed him, turning another page.

“I mean, I hear things aren’t going great in your industry,” said Jiyong. “Shouldn’t you be at the office?” Mostly to nettle the man; Jiyong didn’t really wanna talk to Insull about Brown’s insinuations, ‘cos what if Seunghyun was right and the Fed _did_ find out he’d blabbed and made trouble for him? Jiyong didn’t think he could take much more worry just now: his nerves were frayed enough.

“There is no need to concern yourself with that.” Insull looked vaguely disapproving, as if it wasn’t Jiyong’s place to worry about such lofty matters or question his elders and betters. “Everything I need to do is being done. I’m here to see you; to find out if _you_ need anything.”

“Not really!” Honestly, the man _was_ arrogant: thinking no-one could go five minutes without requiring him up in their business.

“Then simply to talk with you.”

“I really don’t see what’s so interesting about talking to me,” said Jiyong sulkily, and meant it. “Don’t you have more appropriate friends?”

“What _is_ ‘appropriate’?” inquired his patron with a facetious raise of the eyebrows. Jiyong scowled, ‘cos wasn’t that _his_ line? He’d always been the one to buck convention. “I should be very interested to know.” This was one of the many reasons Jiyong was wary of speaking to Insull about anything but practical matters: he knew Jiyong too well, had taught him the art of conversation, and sometimes the younger man thought he used that to make himself feel bigger by making Jiyong’s mind seem small. At such times there was no point trying to out-talk him.

“It’s not leaders of industry fucking teenage boys, I’ll tell you that!” he shot back; if he couldn’t be clever he could at least be vulgar enough to derail the discussion. Back at the House that would’ve been the end of it: his keeper would have spanked him or worse ‘til he was in tears – real or fake – then Jiyong would say he’d learned his lesson and Insull would indulgently forgive him. Jiyong hadn’t minded – it was a way to control the situation. These days spankings were right off the cards, though, so how would the older man react? He lolled against the desk and gave Insull an insolent shrug. The moustache bristled for a moment, but Jiyong was surprised to see the air of genuine offense give way to a more normal level of irritation.

“How very provoking you can be,” said Insull waspishly. He paused. “…Such a way to speak to a man older than your father.” Jiyong shut his smart mouth on the retort he’d been preparing, his eyes suddenly stinging – oh, that was too raw of a hurt still.

“My father hasn’t spoken to me since I was thirteen,” he snapped to hide the pain. “He _never will_. And whose doing was _that_?” He put a hand across his mouth and breathed slowly behind it to calm himself, the vision of that empty chair grinning balefully before his eyes. Insull was now watching him with great attention.

“After all this time?” he said at last, and no longer sounded angry. Jiyong tried a cynical smile.

“Once a whore always a whore, apparently.” The older man sighed at that, though Jiyong could tell it was at the crude turn of phrase rather than ‘cos Insull felt any guilt.

“I meant that even now, it hurts?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Jiyong, the smile crumpling. “What didja expect? I can’t turn off _my_ loyalties either.”

“…Then I’m very sorry for you.” Jiyong was astonished to see that he actually looked it: grave and undemonstrative as usual but almost _sympathetic_. “I cannot pretend to understand why someone would act that way towards his own child,” Insull continued. “Especially one who has been so good to him as you’ve proven to be. But I hope he’ll one day come to his senses.”

“Oh, Sir,” said Jiyong helplessly, slumping down on the far end of the sofa and pushing his hair out of his face with both hands. “I don’t think that’s ever gunna happen.” No, his dad was too like Insull at least in this respect: that his good opinion, once broken, could hardly be mended. He quickly told himself to quit thinking about the similarities between the two authority figures of his youth – as Seunghyun always said, it was goddamn creepy. Besides, as it turned out he never _had_ lost Insull’s good opinion: the older man had made Jiyong into this person his father despised, but unlike his dad Insull had never judged him for it. The only other man he could say _that_ about was Seunghyun – and Jiyong knew his Tabi was edging slowly closer to doing so.

“Perhaps,” Insull agreed. “But even if it never happens, you are a success: not only in the eyes of those who care for you but in the eyes of the world. We cannot allow the opinions of other people to stop us pushing forward.” Well, he would say that, thought Jiyong – the man was built of ambition.

“If you knew what it was like to lose someone…” he began, his heart aching with the emptiness of that chair. He quickly trailed off: why bother getting into that kinda discussion with such an icicle? Insull stared at him and Jiyong dropped his gaze; the older man drummed his fingers on his knee for a minute before finally speaking again.

“Thomas Edison died last year, you know,” Insull told him. Jiyong shook his head; he hadn’t, though he’d been aware the two men had worked together for decades. “More than the War, or this Depression, even more than my own ageing, it made me aware of _time_.” The younger man blinked: Insull seldom talked to him about feelings or philosophy. Was this an attempt to respond like a human being to Jiyong’s distress, and what was he meant to do about it if it was? If they’d still been at the House he’d have known exactly how to handle it – with mute physical affection – but he was stumped as to how he oughta deal with such a statement now.

“…You were close with Mr. Edison, right?” he said gently. Everyone knew Insull wouldn’t be where he was now if not for the inventor, but from what Jiyong understood there was a personal connection there too. Insull nodded.

“He needed someone like me – he’d no head for business, it was too full of brilliance. And I liked him.” He sighed. “I saw him a few days before his death, he knew it was coming; we went out driving together. It was…poignant.” He looked uncomfortable at even using such a word. “On that ride I felt we were still full of life, planning ideas to enrich the world – not merely two old men.”

“Then he was still…y’know, all there?” Jiyong tapped his head, setting aside his own grief in response to the older man’s offering. Insull looked at him over the top of his spectacles, like he knew Jiyong was trying to be consoling even if he _was_ doing a shitty job of it.

“Oh, yes, he was still inventing, up to the moment he died.” His moustache lifted in a minute smile. “And still mad[44].”

“Really?”

“Mad as a hatter,” said Insull in what passed for a fond voice. “And then that great light was simply…gone.” He went quiet and leaned back; it was as though someone had turned off the chill of determination that usually preserved him as if on ice, and to Jiyong he suddenly looked his age. The younger man didn’t know what he was thinking about – he rarely did – but hesitantly scooted along to sit a little closer.

“…I’m sorry,” he offered, just as Insull had to him. Insull nodded and patted his hand, and for once Jiyong didn’t feel like flinching away.

 

* * *

 

Insull had him summoned again after the evening performance. Jiyong didn’t like to go to his car at night, but he was feeling sorry for him and he didn’t have to stay long. Luckily Seunghyun had gone visiting with the riggers, taking a couple of bottles of moonshine with him – he hadn’t been thrilled to be ditched that afternoon, especially in favor of Insull – so Jiyong could hopefully avoid a scene so long as he got back quick enough that he could pretend he’d been in all night. Insull was sitting on the couch so the younger man perched on the edge of the desk; he didn’t wanna get comfy. When Insull offered him coffee, though, he didn’t refuse: it was always _great_ , proper foreign stuff with real cream. A cookhouse waiter came and made it and they sat in silence ‘til he went away.

“We’ve managed to get along quite peaceably lately,” pointed out Insull, who wasn’t above a bit of self-congratulation. Jiyong nodded: that afternoon had almost been pleasant in the end, once they’d gotten over the father _faux pas_.

“I guess,” he acknowledged. The older man paused.

“…I don’t wish to offend you,” he said at last, as Jiyong spread his hands in a silent query. “But I would like to ask you to reconsider.”

“Sorry?” Insull folded his own hands.

“I’d like you to be my lover.” Jiyong choked on his coffee and wheezed in a breath; Insull didn’t offer to help like a normal person but sat there ‘til Jiyong got himself under control.

“…Sir!” managed Jiyong, his eyes watering. “We had all this out back in Chicago!” He felt vaguely ill, though that might be the liquid in his airways. He dragged a hand across his face: was Insull finally calling in payment for the favors he’d done? “We’re getting along ‘cos you were doing what you promised – leaving me alone!”

“I know that,” said his impossible boss in the usual even tone. The fingertips of one hand tapped against their counterparts for a minute before he spoke again. “But I’ve found it more difficult than I expected to be near you and not desire you – today especially.”

“Desire away!” snapped Jiyong, shuffling backwards along the table to put some distance between them – not that he couldn’t move twice as fast as the older man if it came to it, but he’d rather not need to try. “Just keep it to yourself.”

“I have done. I no longer think it’s possible.”

“Ugh… _why_?” groaned Jiyong; this was ruining everything! “I don’t s’pose this is the time to ask it, but – _why me_?” He gestured largely out of the window at the dark tents and the country beyond. “There’s a million beautiful men and women out there: younger and better educated, and less trouble than I ever was. Please, Sir,” he went on, earnest now. “Why not find _somebody else_?” He stopped and tucked his hands protectively between his knees, in case they tried to do something stupid like literally beg the man.

“…You were the great passion of my life,” said Insull gravely. His fingers flexed, as if he wanted to touch Jiyong and was having trouble remembering he no longer had the right. Jiyong huffed angrily but couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit flattered at the fancy turn of phrase, regardless of the fact that it was provably bullshit.

“Apart from your empire and the Opera and your causes and your _wife_ ,” he reminded the older man. Insull shrugged, which was pretty much what Jiyong had expected.

“You arrived at precisely the right moment. When I married Mrs. Insull I was living and breathing electricity: I was ruthless and ambitious to a fault, and I have never regretted it. I love her dearly, but her natural chasteness and my way of life quickly deprived us of intimacy.” His gray gaze moved sedately over Jiyong’s face. “ _You_ , though, my boy…I met you at a time when I no longer needed to hustle in that way, and so I had the leisure to _see_ you: as small and vibrant and lovely as she was – and you haven’t changed. You’re the very incarnation of modernity: your youth and audaciousness and your horrible frenetic jazz. From the day we met you electrified me.”

“Then why’d you get bored and dump me in the House?” Jiyong demanded, ignoring the last couple of sentences due to his not understanding half the words. If they were gunna go back in time and retread this tired old territory he might as well get some of the answers Insull would never give him when he’d been a kid. His sponsor frowned. “If I’m so _special_?” And that was without even asking about the other mistresses Jiyong knew the man had kept while _he_ was earning his bread ‘entertaining’ the degenerate elite of Chicago.

“I had business abroad, as I told you[45].” Jiyong rolled his eyes – no matter what Insull said, that _always_ came first. “And besides, keeping you isolated would have done you no good, no matter how gratifying to myself – you thrive on the gaze of a crowd. Am I wrong?”

“No. Just deluded. You should’ve let me try and go home.”

“You know quite well I could not,” stated Insull. “I wanted you very badly. I still do. I don’t deny you’ve been a great deal of trouble to me,” he added, raising his eyebrows at Jiyong’s expression. “Still, I believe we suit each other as well as ever.”

“How can you say that, Sir?” asked Jiyong; he was too upset to summon the defiance he felt he oughta, but he had to say _something_. “After everything?” The moustache twitched.

“Old man that I am,” replied Insull coolly, “my ambition appears intact: I still want to be the one to care for you. You think the things you’ve done are enough to halt it?”

“That _I’ve_ done?!” Jiyong exclaimed, any warmth he might have felt at Insull’s declaration evaporating _pronto_. Seunghyun’s many rants against the older man presented themselves at the front of his mind and opened his mouth for him: “Who made me a whore, huh? Who shut me up in that place and left me there, then sold me to a madman?!” He felt lightheaded even saying these things – only once had he spoken to Insull this way, that terrible night after his boss had discovered McGurn’s diamonds.

“I had no choice in the last, as you know perfectly well,” said his sponsor almost hotly. “And I lamented it; yes. But I tried my level best to keep you safe, as I always have.”

“Huh!” That hardly made Jiyong feel better. Insull curled his lip beneath his moustache; most people read that as anger but Jiyong knew from experience it meant he was merely working through a mental puzzle.

“Do you regret it?” asked Insull after a minute. He didn’t sound mad. “The life I gave you.” Jiyong opened his mouth on a bitter retort, shut it again, and thought of it all: the security, the pain, the luxury, the loneliness, then his time here in the Circus…and Seunghyun. Despite the past and present tensions between the two of them, most of all this life had brought him Seunghyun.

“…No,” he said softly, and just for a moment leaned across to touch Insull’s sleeve like old times. “No, Sir. Not any of it. But I can’t go back.”

 

* * *

 

“ _Hi_ honey, I’m home!” called Seunghyun brightly, tripping over a wonky bit of floor as he threw open the door to their compartment right before they were due to roll out. “Whoops!” Jiyong leaned up on one elbow in the narrow bunk and stifled a laugh when his lover grabbed a high cupboard door for support, missed, and stumbled headlong toward him. He felt better just seeing him.

“Guess you had a pretty nice time!” he said, and stretched out his arm. “Come lay down before you fall down, Tabi.” Seunghyun flopped heavily onto the bed, making the springs sag. Ooh, he was drunk, thought Jiyong, the good-natured kinda drunk he’d been in the old days: even in the dim light he could see the flush in those gorgeous cheeks. He hauled the bigger man closer; Seunghyun lolled an arm across his chest and beamed at him. Jiyong wasn’t pissed at all, he was glad his Tabi had had a good time – and extra glad he’d been able to make it back from that disturbing visit to Insull’s car without him noticing.

“ _Was_ nice. But ‘s nicer to be here.” Seunghyun cupped his cheek, the skin of his palm liquor-hot. He stroked his thumb fondly over Jiyong’s smooth cheekbone and leaned in for a kiss, and the younger man eagerly obliged him, happy that he wasn’t too plastered to stay awake. Jiyong wanted nothing more right now than the oblivion of Seunghyun’s fierce embrace: he didn’t wanna think about what Insull had asked of him just an hour ago. He needed taking out of himself.

“Tabi…” murmured Jiyong with a nip at the man’s lower lip to get his attention. Seunghyun growled softly and kissed him deeper, and Jiyong took his free hand by the wrist to direct it beneath his pajama shirt. “Harder,” he whispered as Seunghyun’s long fingers got a grip on his waist; but the older man was stroking his skin reverently, hands a little clumsy but eager and affectionate. Affection wasn’t really what Jiyong wanted now, though: this evening had tipped the scale of his cares and he wanted Seunghyun to take charge.

“Mmm. You taste real good…” Seunghyun’s lips buzzed against the bone of his clavicle, the words vibrating sweetly, and on an ordinary day Jiyong would like it. He _did_ like it, but…

“Wanna help me forget?” he asked, tipping his head back submissively. He had to tug on Seunghyun’s hair to get him to look up. His lover didn’t generally require a lot of prompting – he’d learned to read Jiyong so well – but tonight something was off. Jiyong figured it was the drink, so maybe he was gunna need a few hints.

“Forget what, darling?” said Seunghyun in a charming slur. He gave the smaller man a broad smile while his hands slid along Jiyong’s hips, drawing his pajama pants down inch by inch.

“Everything,” Jiyong told him solemnly. But Seunghyun only kissed his stomach with a little giggle like the one he was always sharing with Cliff the Cannonball as the train whistle sounded and their car juddered into motion.

“Aww, just lemme blow you.” He grinned. “You’ll forget all about the house thing. Y’know I’m on it…” His mouth nudged against Jiyong’s again, tongue brushing between his lips to touch the other man’s with the promise of a great treat when he did go down on him.

“…I kinda need a rough one,” admitted Jiyong through the screech of metal and hiss of steam outside. He looked up into Seunghyun’s large eyes and hoped he’d read the plea there.

“Whassa matter, sweetheart?” crooned Seunghyun, warm and tipsy. Jiyong gave up and said it.

“Mr. Insull had me come see him tonight.” At that the bigger man stopped nuzzling him and drew his head back with a puzzled frown: he knew Jiyong never allowed night visits.

“…You weren’t gonna tell me.”

“No.” Seunghyun’s grip tightened on his hips, yes, _that_ was what he wanted. He wished he hadn’t had to bother his lover with such a fact in order to get him in the mood for it.

“Why?” demanded Seunghyun, his voice dropping further. “What’d the old bastard say?” Jiyong pursed his lips for a second.

“Things I didn’t wanna hear – that I don’t wanna remember.”

“What’d he do to you?!”

“Nothing.” Jiyong dug his fingertips into Seunghyun’s shoulders, a silent encouragement to start their old punishment play. “I just need you to help me – to stop him getting under my skin.” Seunghyun stared down at him like he either didn’t understand him or for some reason didn’t think he was on the level. Jiyong didn’t know what was so hard to comprehend: he didn’t _want_ to think about Mr. Insull’s quiet request anymore, and surely his Tabi would also much rather he didn’t! Then:

“ _Keep still_ ,” muttered Seunghyun in a deep, dangerous voice, almost exactly the one Jiyong had been aching to hear. His fingers fumbled again for the hem of Jiyong’s pants and this time he wasn’t gentle, yanking them roughly down his hips and off his legs. Jiyong gasped and lay back obediently, waiting for his partner to order him, to control his body until his thoughts followed suit. Seunghyun’s hands were on his shirt now: a button flew off as he tore it open to press his mouth hot against the skin beneath. Jiyong made a vague mental note – the kind he’d never needed in the House – to find the button and sew it back on later. Then the older man’s teeth closed around his nipple and he let out a sharp whine. His hands had come together of their own accord, crossing themselves as if begging Seunghyun to restrain him.

“Please…” he heard himself say simply. Seunghyun ignored him for a bit and continued to attack the nubs of his nipples ‘til they were hard and sucked and bitten into deep pink. Jiyong watched the line of those broad shoulders moving above him and felt wonderfully small. He was about to ask again when he was dragged up the bed and tied summarily to the metal frame by the rope they left hanging there for just such occasions; Seunghyun was still drunk and scowled as he focused on the knots, causing Jiyong to hiss as the ropes tightened too far for comfort. He didn’t care, he wanted _more_ : affection could wait. Seunghyun knelt above him immovable as Jiyong arched up into him – what would the taller man do to him? That _look_ he was giving him, dark and intense as the dust storm, it made Jiyong shiver and anticipate, made his dick hard with the promise of conscious thought being driven out of his head. Seunghyun’s hand was inching towards his cock, to caress or torment, Jiyong didn’t know, but–

“…I can’t,” said Seunghyun, and stopped. Jiyong’s eyebrows drew down, surely he wasn’t _that_ drunk! But when he raised a knee to brush the front of his lover’s trousers he found Seunghyun’s excitement by no means matched his own. He let out a snarl of frustration, then calmed down: there was a first time for everything, and wasn’t like this hadn’t happened to plenty of his clients when they’d been on the sauce all evening.

“How about we wait a few minutes,” he suggested breathlessly, “and then-”

“No,” Seunghyun interrupted, still slurring a little but with his jaw set firmly. “Not after you’ve been with _him_.” Jiyong’s mouth fell open.

“I haven’t _been with_ anyone…!” he announced, astonished and totally offended. “I’m trying to be with _you_!” This daft drunken jealous idiot! Seunghyun shook his head, handsome face flushed and grim. Quickly he reached over to struggle with the knots he’d tied, and then Jiyong’s arms were free, his wrists unbruised and unsatisfied.

“I didn’t say you fucked him. But…you were with him twice today, for hours, longer than you spent with me.” Seunghyun threw the rope into a corner. “You even _smell_ like him: like money.”

“I didn’t have a lotta choice!” The older man just looked at him, and Jiyong felt his ears turn pink ‘cos while that was the truth it was also true that he could’ve been colder, left Insull’s luxurious car sooner, and certainly not engaged with him on the personal topic of his father that afternoon. But Insull had listened to him; and perhaps for once his sponsor had needed someone to listen in return. If _that_ made Jiyong a tramp he wasn’t gunna apologize for it!

“And you weren’t even gonna tell me,” accused Seunghyun, as if that was the killing blow in his argument. Jiyong drew his tattooed knees up and banged his forehead on them.

“‘Cos I knew it’d upset you!”

“Jesus, listen to yourself.” Seunghyun sat down on the edge of the bed with a thump. “This is the exact excuse you used for the cooch show, and look what trouble that got you into!” Jiyong bit his lip, then told himself the two situations were completely different. He told Seunghyun so too. His partner looked like he wanted to say yeah, _this_ time was worse; but instead the bigger man sighed and started unlacing his boots.

“Is that it?” asked Jiyong, who’d expected a full fight or a reconciliation – either way, he’d expected sex.

“Why not?” Seunghyun passed him his damaged shirt. “Are you gonna stop seeing him?”

“I can’t,” Jiyong snapped, thinking of Terrell and the responsibility he had to the Circus. Anyway, what was so wrong with having conversations as long as Insull started behaving again? He thrust his arms through the shirtsleeves and reached for his pants, he didn’t feel like sleeping naked right now – he was vulnerable enough. Seunghyun grunted.

“Then we’re just going round in circles. How about we get some sleep instead?”

Jiyong nodded and watched in silence as Seunghyun got ready for bed – tonight’s routine included a big shot of moonshine before he brushed his teeth. The taller man pulled back the covers and crawled in on the wall side, then held them open for Jiyong to snuggle under. He tucked him in as carefully as he would any other night, reached up to turn out the light, and lay down.

“Night,” he said quietly.

“Tabi…” Jiyong whispered into the dark. Seunghyun didn’t answer him; nor did he protest when Jiyong’s questing hand found his own and tangled their fingers together. The younger man knew he wasn’t sleeping: when Tabi got drunk he snored. He couldn’t understand Seunghyun’s behavior. He also couldn’t _believe_ his lover had been able to stop – in the middle of sex, with _him_! Jiyong felt himself frown; this was almost the first time in his life he hadn’t been able to solve a problem with fucking. If anything he’d made things worse: his own anxieties and burdens hadn’t been banished but had only increased, and now he had Seunghyun’s mental state to be worried about too. Not only that, thought Jiyong: it was the first time ever that sex between himself and Seunghyun had just plain _failed_ ; even when they were tired or angry it’d always been good. This was brand new – and very disconcerting. What was Seunghyun thinking about? he wondered. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Instead they both lay awake, hand in hand, and hoped the morning would make things better.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 42Individuals could refuse to rent or sell housing to non-whites – this wasn’t made illegal until 1968! Then in the 1930s a ‘redlining’ policy was brought in: basically, if you wanted to buy in a non-white neighbourhood (areas which were redlined as ‘high risk’) ‘cos no-one in the white neighbourhoods would sell to you, getting a mortgage was more expensive or impossible. Further, the Federal Housing Association would only give a loan to 2% of non-white buyers who applied. (Peter Wade. (2015) _Race: An Introduction_.)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 43This is true: Insull invited Barnum to give a lecture to his literary society in 1878, and used his clever publicity methods (Barnum was a famous flim-flam man) to sell his electricity.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 44Thomas Edison was a classic example of the fine line between being a genius and being completely bonkers. He genuinely believed (it’s in his journals) that every human’s brain contains a number of tiny people working in shifts to record your memories. He also worked on a speaker that he believed could amplify the voices of dead spirits. No lie![return to text]  
> 
> 
> 45Actually it’s more likely Insull was in Europe recovering from one of his several nervous breakdowns (caused by his compulsion to overwork (Wasik, 2007)), but he wouldn’t like Jiyong to see such a ‘weakness’. And part of his attraction to Jiyong would certainly have been that he was willing to put out: Mrs. Insull was never much for sex, and after their kid Sam Jr. almost died of scarlet fever and Insull was banned from the mansion for months (it was quarantined) she never let him in her bed again…[return to text]  
> 
> 
> This chapter's title song (and the one Jiyong and Seunghyun were dancing to) is _'You Rascal, You'_ , performed by Rex Stewart and the Connie's Inn Orchestra in 1931. It's really cool, check it out on YouTube! The song is from the POV of a guy whose wife has the hots for another man, and the singer describes in some detail what bits he's gonna cut off said man in revenge ^^;


	19. All Muddled Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong finds his pressures building to an almost unbearable level...

Unfortunately for Jiyong the only thing morning brought was the return of Brown. They’d just set up on the lot and Jiyong was hauling animal feed round the menagerie tent when he saw the untidy figure of the IRS agent sidling up to him. Jiyong noted with disdain that the man’s suit was creased and a shade of navy blue just too light to be classy. What was a Fed’s salary, anyway? Why were they paying him to tail Sells-Floto round the country when it was clear no-one wanted to tell him anything? Cirkies weren’t exactly known for their tolerance of outsiders.

“What now?” Jiyong said with a bored expression as he tipped an armload of reeds and squashes into the capybara pen. He brushed past Brown and headed back to the feed truck. Of course the asshole followed him.

“Wanted to give you another chance to do the right thing,” the investigator told him while Jiyong filled a bucket with grain.

“After what you called me before?!”

“My bosses say ask, I ask,” said Brown with a resigned smile. “Anyway, it’d be in your interest to have us on your side – your sugar daddy’s sliding further into trouble by the day.”

“Go away!” Why hadn’t Terrell thrown this guy off the lot yet? Jiyong wondered. Perhaps he couldn’t. The younger man wasn’t sure if the Circus on the move was considered private property; perhaps the Feds could go wherever the hell they pleased. But surely this was edging towards police harassment – he was _feeling_ pretty harassed, at least. “What trouble?” he demanded crossly. Brown would never explain the financial stuff clearly enough for Jiyong to understand, as if he got a sick kick outta teasing him.

“Never mind.” Brown followed him back to the menagerie. “C’mon, put yourself first and tell us what you know: business or personal, we can use it all. We can make it worth your while.”

“How?!”

“When we finally take your boss down who’s gonna pay for your lifestyle?”

“My _lifestyle_.” Jiyong snorted: how glamorous it was to spend his mornings mucking out llamas.

“Your career, then. What happens when this outfit finally folds? ‘Cos once we get around to arresting Sam Insull it _will_.” Jiyong glared at him, his chest tightening. “We could offer a pretty good payout if you’ll tell your story on the record,” said Brown persuasively. “Help cushion the blow.”

“No.” Apart from the many other considerations, Jiyong had no wish to testify in court; rarely in his life had he been ashamed, but the idea of standing in front of Insull’s gray stare and screwing him over to his face made him go hot with preemptive horror. Not to mention what it’d do to his family – especially his dad – if their old affair was made public! He’d told Seunghyun the same thing during one of their increasingly frequent debates about Brown. It was plain that his lover hadn’t understood how Jiyong could feel zero embarrassment over stuff like prostitution and the cooch show but so much shame at the mere thought of _this_. Still, Jiyong was firm: if he took money for being a rat he truly _would_ be selling himself.

“You haven’t even asked how much yet.” Jiyong ignored him, the tightness around his heart becoming a doubtful and suspicious pressure. Was it normal for the Government to bribe witnesses?! He didn’t trust ‘em an inch, could believe they’d stoop to anything; but the offer made him yet more jittery and at the same time offended him completely. Brown seemed genuinely surprised at his lack of interest. “I gotta say, it’s hard to credit that someone of your profession – all right, _former_ profession – would be so averse to supporting himself. Don’t you need money?”

“Get lost.” He did; after the house purchase went through, assuming it was successful, he’d have nothing left. And of course it wasn’t only Brown talking about the closure of Sells-Floto: there were mutterings all over the Circus about what next season might bring – or if there’d even be one. But he wouldn’t talk, not for money, not for anything.

“Guess your patron’s supporting you nicely,” said Brown, tipping the brim of his fedora up to scratch his forehead; the heat was creeping up the country day by day. He looked like he had his own ideas about what services Jiyong was providing Insull in return. “But if you had half a brain in your head you’d know that can’t last. And when you’re alone and the IRS is coming for _you_ , you’ll wish you’d taken us up on our offer.”

“You done insulting me?!” snapped Jiyong. He ducked under the llama fence and wrapped his arms around one of the animals, deliberately turning his back on the Fed. He decided right then that the day Brown tried to make good on his threats of legal action against him he would finally tell Mr. Insull everything, no matter what Seunghyun advised – and good luck to the IRS then! He heard Brown make a noise of amused frustration; when Jiyong took his face out of the llama’s woolly neck the man was gone.

 

* * *

 

Gone he might be, thought Jiyong later, but his influence wasn’t: whatever rumors he’d been hinting at regarding Insull obviously hadn’t been directed at Jiyong alone. That afternoon he heard concerned whisperings and questions begin to rise between the tents, in conversations among kinkers and roustabouts. Timtam and the sideshow gang didn’t mutter about it but asked Jiyong straight.

“Why d’you think _I’d_ know anything about the Money Man?” Jiyong retorted grumpily. “It’s only rumors anyway.” Timtam’s expression told him exactly why: he still figured Jiyong was Insull’s boy-toy. They all did! Jiyong gave his friend a sharp dressing-down, not that it did any good: Timtam was convinced. The younger man growled to himself and stalked off to change for the matinée. No wonder Seunghyun was so fractious these days – the gossip mill was working overtime.

He didn’t get to speak to his lover ‘til after the performance. They hadn’t really spoken at all since that worrisome episode last night, but Jiyong didn’t wanna start a cold war. On one hand he was frustrated with Seunghyun’s overreaction to a situation he was simply trying to make the best of; on the other, Jiyong could understand his upset: it must feel like the cooch show and Gough all over again. So he was determined not to sulk. Besides, he wanted the older man’s thoughts.

“Can the Government really offer to do that?” he asked Seunghyun back at their car. Seunghyun cracked open a bottle from his latest batch and inhaled; he poured a snifter, and after a taste handed it to Jiyong. It felt like a peace offering, thought the smaller man, relieved.

“Did he actually mention money?” inquired Seunghyun thoughtfully.

“…Not sure. He said something like a ‘payout’.”

“Hmm.” Seunghyun swilled the akvavit around in his glass. “Well, I’ve heard of Feds offering _favors_ for testimonies – and threats for not cooperating. But I don’t recall any mention of hard cash.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Still, though,” continued Seunghyun, “it seems they want Insull _bad_ : this has to come from someone high up. And in that case I wouldn’t put _anything_ past them when it comes to getting what they want.” He pinned Jiyong with a solemn stare, the weight of which left the younger man feeling uncomfortable; maybe it was just the memory of last night’s fiasco, but for the first time those beautiful eyes looked like they were judging him. “If I were you,” Seunghyun said urgently, “I wouldn’t try to impede this investigation. They’re gonna steamroller that son of a bitch – and anyone who gets in their way.” He sat back and took another sip. “Besides, they’re just doing their job.”

“What Brown’s doing isn’t a job,” countered Jiyong, the antsy feelings rising again at his partner’s attitude. “It’s a _hunt_!”

“Yeah, he’s unscrupulous.” Jiyong was glad they could agree on _that_ , at least. “But in a good cause.” Or perhaps not. “You know what I think of these private corporations,” Seunghyun went on. “Their total, unchecked rule: it’s partly to blame for this Depression and now somebody – that Roosevelt, maybe – finally wants to take a hand in controlling them[46]. Good! This isn’t personal,” he said more gently. “Insull’s simply their figurehead.”

“ _Scapegoat_ ,” Jiyong corrected him, proud of knowing the word and utterly skeptical that Seunghyun had no personal stake in this. “And don’t try that excuse with me! If it was anyone else Brown was after you’d say I oughta tell him to stuff it!” Seunghyun gave him an exasperated look before abandoning his glass and grabbing the bottle.

“What do you want me to say, Jiyong?” he demanded after a swig. “ _Of course_ I’m glad that awful old sod’s on the ropes – the sooner he’s out of our lives the better!”

“I know,” said the smaller man after a pause. It was natural for Seunghyun to see it that way. “Only he’s not _quite_ so awful as you think.” Seunghyun made an incredulous noise.

“Has he ever even said he’s _sorry_? For the things he did to you, and don’t tell me they weren’t terrible!”

“…No.” Seunghyun didn’t look a bit surprised. “But I never asked him to.” This didn’t seem to help. “I didn’t ask him to talk to me at all!” added Jiyong in an attempt to pacify him.

“Right. Christ, Jiyong, there’re so many reasons why you should want to be rid of him!”

“But…” Jiyong cast around for a logical argument his Tabi might understand. “Brown’s saying his financial affairs are delicate right now, and a court case could ruin him completely!” Seunghyun had to know Insull’s backing was probably the only thing holding the Circus together, even if he had no notion of Jiyong’s own responsibility to keep them all afloat. But the older man’s eyes flashed and the corners of his mouth curled up.

“ _Yeah_ ,” he agreed. “I heard what Brown said.”

“And you don’t think the downfall of our main sponsor’s a _problem_?”

“I won’t lie,” said Seunghyun with a big smile that Jiyong mistrusted. “It’s giving me a great deal of schadenfreude.”

“…You know I don’t know what that means.”

“Yeah,” agreed Seunghyun. “I know.” He didn’t offer to explain. “But I also know it’s time to make a deal with Brown, no matter how much of an asshole he is; to keep yourself out of trouble if nothing else.” He sighed. “Screw Sells-Floto: what matters is _you_. I don’t want to lose you ‘cos the Feds decide you need punishing! I couldn’t bear it.” Almost tentatively he said: “…I could speak to him for you. If it’d be easier.” Jiyong tamped down a very real flash of anger, ‘cos hadn’t he been listening at all?!

“Tabi, don’t you say a word about me to Brown! If Mr. Insull _is_ in trouble they can find the rope to hang him with by themselves.” Jiyong knew by now that appealing to Seunghyun’s sympathy regarding the man was pointless, so instead tried: “I don’t wanna be mixed up in it – I _can’t_ lose this job, especially if I’m gunna buy my parents’ place, and if anything about my past gets out…”

“…I won’t,” said Seunghyun grudgingly; his handsome face had gone from concern back to disappointment. “But you know what, Jiyong? Sometimes these days I’m _sorely_ tempted.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong was sitting at his personal vanity table removing his makeup after the night show when he spotted his lover outside the tent door. Following their argument that afternoon Seunghyun had gone off to sulk, and Jiyong was dealing with very similar feelings: he knew the older man was jealous, and sensed that Seunghyun was slowly shifting some of the blame for this whole mess from Insull to Jiyong himself. Maybe that was understandable, but it damn well got Jiyong’s back up ‘cos he was trying his best to please everyone _and_ keep the Circus above water into the bargain. Okay, Seunghyun didn’t know all that, but he might give Jiyong the benefit of the doubt!

“I’m going into town,” said Seunghyun shortly, stepping away from a group of techs that included Jiyong’s own rigger and Jenny – the young assistant was stuck on Tabi, everyone knew it, and spent every minute she could with him. Jiyong wasn’t worried about _that_ , his less-than-stellar night with Seunghyun notwithstanding; but it was suddenly rather irritating to see. The riggers’ pockets jingled with coins, the Circus was stopping overnight. Seunghyun ducked under the tent flap. “Coming?” he inquired. Jiyong opened his mouth, paused, then resumed taking off his greasepaint. He wanted to, he did – but wasn’t there something in Seunghyun’s voice that spoke to the older man’s reluctance? Maybe he’d actually prefer to talk shop with his easy-going peers than have another difficult evening with his lover. Jiyong couldn’t think fast enough to figure out what Seunghyun meant by asking him when he was clearly still in a foul mood.

“Well, I-” he began, stalling for time. Seunghyun’s perfect features dropped.

“Never mind,” he said quietly, and returned to his friends. His gait was even, as if he wasn’t bothered in the slightest, though the set of his shoulders looked crestfallen. Jiyong felt a pang of regret, and unease that he’d lost the knack of reading him. He finished getting changed then went back to their car and sat outside for a while, a little tearful and a little frustrated, staring up at the star-studded sky without seeing it. Maybe he should’ve gone after all; maybe Seunghyun should quit sending mixed goddamn signals! As he finally trudged up the steps to the compartment one of the all-trade kids scampered out of the dark.

“Money Man invited you for supper!” piped the girl at Jiyong’s inquiring glance. “What I oughta tell him?” Jiyong peered off at the path along which Seunghyun had vanished; he pursed his lips, a small flutter in his stomach telling him…something. It was probably anger – at everyone. But what else did he have to do?

“…Yeah,” he told the kid, and swallowed. “Tell Mr. Insull I’ll come.”

He took his time, not wanting to appear too eager: he didn’t wish to give Insull the wrong idea, especially after his alarming declaration the other day. But if Seunghyun could go out, so could he. He knocked on the door fifteen minutes after he got the message, and at a quiet word of permission walked in. Insull’s train car was as pristine and pretty as ever, the only disorder the stacks of papers on his desk. The food was on the table already, hot dishes keeping warm under silver covers and candles glowing amid the plates. It looked amazing and Jiyong decided his bad humor with Seunghyun and Brown and all of ‘em wasn’t enough to keep him from being hungry. Insull gave him an appreciative glance: Jiyong had made an effort to look and smell decent instead of turning up in a dressing gown, which was how he usually socialized after the evening show.

“I was getting lonely,” the older man chided him. Jiyong smiled reluctantly.

“Sir, you know you never are!” The moustache gave a wiggle that was probably agreement, and Insull beckoned him to the table; it smelled divine.

Jiyong ate and drank with appetite – more champagne, was Insull bringing it down with him or what? He didn’t think even Terrell had such a stash. The food vanished quickly ‘cos he still wasn’t comfortable lingering here at night; although to give Insull credit he appeared to have taken Jiyong’s scoldings to heart and behaved perfectly properly. He told Jiyong about the preparations for the next Chicago World’s Fair – it fairly boggled the younger man’s mind that he’d been around for the last one, many decades before. Insull then related a couple of short anecdotes about Fairs he’d visited in different countries and what he’d eaten there, and Jiyong regaled him with the weird local cuisines of places in Canada; only another two months and they’d be there, and if Insull could brave the wilds of Quebec he would taste for himself.

“I wish you wouldn’t rush off every time,” said Insull after about an hour, noticing Jiyong start to fidget. “Have another drink: _savor_ the meal you just ate.” Jiyong frowned but allowed himself to be poured another glass. It occurred to him that perhaps the man _was_ lonely; why would he join the train so often if not? He wondered if something had happened to Insull’s many important, cultured friends that _Jiyong_ was now the best company he could get. For a moment Brown’s comments rapped on the inside of his brain and he began to worry again, and even to feel a tiny bit bad for the older man, ‘cos out of all the educated people Jiyong knew surely only Seunghyun would choose him for conversation this often.

“D’you _really_ like talking to me?” he asked, not very tactfully – he could blame the champagne for that. Now the moustache was hiding a smile.

“You can be rather entertaining,” Insull told him, folding his napkin neatly and removing himself and his ginger ale to the sofa. Jiyong stayed put. “But even when your talk is commonplace – or when you display your remarkable gift for irritating – I find it pleasant to hear you.” Jiyong noted that Insull didn’t actually say he _listened_ to him; but apparently he must do sometimes ‘cos he went on to ask about the progress on his parents’ house and give him some more advice.

“I’ll tell Seunghyun,” said Jiyong once he’d done his best to memorize it. When they were next on speaking terms. He hoped it’d be soon, he hated when they fought and he needed Seunghyun’s love and support so badly: the house and the money and all the other burdens he was juggling. He wanted… If he asked tonight, would Seunghyun forgive him and help him forget it all the way he used to?

“I hope you’re not having any other difficulties,” commented Insull. Jiyong made a conscious effort to smooth out the line between his brows: this man was very good at reading people.

“No.” He pursed his lips. “And if I _was_ you know whose fault it’d be!”

“Why?” Insull lit a cigarette and offered it to Jiyong before igniting his own. “I’ve given you no more gifts that could make the young man upset.” Jiyong inhaled hard.

“Doesn’t hafta be presents,” he said dolefully. “Your help, your _attention_ – don’t you see why he’d resent that?”

“Not especially,” said Insull; was he being deliberately dim? Oh, Jiyong was cross with everyone this evening. “I’ve given you some practical advice, that’s all. You have never sought me out of your own accord, other than to save that boy’s skin from the Bureau of Prohibition; you spend as little time in my company as humanly possible. I fail to see where the threat lies.”

“Are you _trying_ to make me feel bad, Sir?” Jiyong stubbed out his cigarette on a plate; it sure felt like a guilt trip.

“No,” said Insull calmly. “You know already that I like to have you with me, and _I_ know your partner resents that wish – though most of the time it does not inconvenience him in the slightest.” He leaned back. “What I think he resents more is that _you_ enjoy it: the luxury, the ease, the lack of argument.”

“We argue every damn time you call me in here!”

“ _You_ argue,” the older man corrected him. “I have no need to; I simply let you express yourself.” Jiyong rolled his eyes, and Insull smiled. “You are charming whatever your mood.”

“…It _was_ nice talking yesterday,” Jiyong admitted, recalling the peculiar afternoon that’d led to his sponsor renewing his advances last night. “But only ‘cos you weren’t acting like yourself.”

“I was. It was simply a part of myself you’ve never experienced.”

“Then…why’d you decide to show it to me?” asked the younger man, curious in spite of himself. Insull frowned a little, tapped his fingers against the knuckles of his left hand. He shrugged.

“I wished to make you feel more kindly towards me – and I wanted to be kind to _you_ ; you seem to have a great deal of weight on your shoulders. And I believe I succeeded, and that while we talked we both felt better.”

“…I guess.” Jiyong knew he was right; but hearing it _now_ didn’t make him feel better, only more anxious. How he regretted failing to persuade Seunghyun to wear him out last night! His sponsor was right, Jiyong thought: he felt _heavy_ now, overloaded and strange. Insull was looking at him so gently – relatively speaking, anyway – and once again Jiyong remembered the things Brown had said; they caused an unwelcome wave of sympathy for his patron. He sat there silently, not knowing how to steer the conversation.

“Won’t you reconsider?” asked Insull quietly – _again_ , that question.

“No. Why do you want me to?”

“Because I think it could be good for you: you are so laden down with responsibilities, I hate to see it. And it hardly needs to be said how happy it would make _me_.” Insull took off his spectacles, removing the barrier between Jiyong and his light gray eyes. “Please hear me out for once. I told you before that I do not easily change, and in some things I _would_ like to return to the past. You said you can’t go back, Jiyong – but that is a _choice_ , not an inevitability. If you would let me it could be the way it was when we first met: you’d be cherished and protected, _secure_ – I’d relieve you of whatever burdens I could. I don’t ask you to give me everything – not even your body, if you truly hate the idea – only your affection and your _time_.” He smiled thinly, a rare self-deprecating expression. “You have a great deal more of it than I; it would only be for a little while.” Jiyong pressed his lips together unconsciously: these references to the man’s mortality cut deeper into his feelings than any admiring declarations; the promises of a return to care and security, both hypocritical and generous as they were, only pressed home the long years that’d passed since that time. Insull was looking at him solemnly, his eyes now a darker gray. The flutter that look caused in Jiyong’s stomach was enough to get him moving.

“ _You_ might not have changed, Sir,” he managed, and headed for the door because this was becoming dangerous, that look and his reaction to it – pity, and something more complicated that he couldn’t put down simply to the wine. “But _I_ have: all over.” He tugged down his collar to bare the ink, knowing Insull would understand he wasn’t merely talking about the tattoos the man so disliked but _everything_ , and how could anything be the same now? He reached for the door handle – and for no reason at all he paused.

“…Will you show me?” Insull requested as Jiyong went still, eyes intent on the markings at his throat. Jiyong swallowed: finally, there it was. Time and again Insull had promised they were past all this, had said not one minute ago he didn’t need his body; but hadn’t Jiyong known in his heart of hearts that it wasn’t true? For a long moment he stood there without moving or speaking, his thoughts humming too fast for him to make any logic of them or of the possible paths down which this might take him; the older man gave him no further encouragement, merely stared. Jiyong felt _so heavy_ , as if everything was weighing him down, from Insull’s gaze to the jewel pouch around his neck to his clothes – it was stifling. At last his hands rose to his collar and began unsteadily to undo the buttons: he didn’t know why, just knew that it was happening. Insull took a quick breath but his expression did not change – as though this time he’d known what Jiyong’s response would be. Perhaps he had, thought Jiyong; perhaps they both had. He stripped slowly, like the very first time, knowing as he had back then what would happen. The feeling was the same, apprehension and shame but with the old helpless edge of pleasure at being admired – and, like the first time, his fingers didn’t stop.

 

* * *

 

Some time later Jiyong lay with his hair mussed across a fine linen pillowcase, and tried to figure out who he was. He felt very far away and long ago, and at the same time in a place that was absolutely familiar. It had been…exactly as he would’ve imagined it, if he’d cared to imagine it at all. Now he tipped his head back to gaze up at the light teal of the car ceiling, feeling the blood retreat in his cheeks ‘til his skin was pale and cool again. That color, he’d seen it before, stared up at it from the big bed of the first luxurious apartment he’d been kept in so many years ago. The recollection and the slippage it caused between this moment and that one was odd but almost _comfortable_. He knew he oughtn’t to feel that, but he did – and not much of anything else. He didn’t even ask himself why he had done this.

“Your hands have changed,” Insull observed, drawing him back to the present. Jiyong nodded and curled them inward: they were callused by the friction of the silks and scratched from manual work with the animals, no longer the smooth and soft fingers of a rich man’s toy. He’d gotten used to that but right now didn’t want to be reminded; it didn’t seem to fit this mood they’d created together. “It’s not unpleasant,” his sponsor assured him, taking his left wrist to expose his palm again. “It shows you have your own stories. But if it bothers you I’ll order you some creams from the _Profumo Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella_.”

“…Thanks?” Jiyong had no idea what that was, but the fancy foreign words rolling off his tongue took the younger man back to a time when he’d not been able to move for the French and Italian luxuries crowding his bathroom. It almost made him smile.

“What’s this?” inquired Insull next, picking up Jiyong’s diamond pouch by its leather string from where it’d fallen and handing it back to him. Jiyong leaned up on his elbow.

“My savings. But it’s all gunna go on the house payment – if it ever gets done.” He waited for the older man to call him an idiot for carrying his wealth around his neck. But Insull just shook his head.

“I suppose you’re wise. I’m glad you didn’t lose it all like so many others lost theirs. Come here.” He took the necklace again; Jiyong dipped his head and let his patron put it back on him. “Let me handle the house purchase,” requested Insull with a brief touch to his jaw. “I could have it completed in a matter of days.”

“…All right,” Jiyong whispered, still in that odd head-place that felt like the past, when his annoyances had been handled without him even asking. “As long as I can pay.” Insull seemed pleased and immediately dropped the subject. Jiyong saw him looking more closely at his new ink but didn’t think he’d be able to read the tiny lettering without his glasses. “What d’you think?” asked Jiyong softly; this was a familiar routine, like every time he’d come back to the House with a new tattoo as a teenager. It was a kind of déjà vu that soothed instead of startling.

“I always disliked them,” commented Insull, a finger lightly touching the old tattoo on Jiyong’s shoulder – the one that had earned him a whipping all those years ago. Jiyong had long since forgiven that, and didn’t flinch now.

“…I know. But was it because you think they’re ugly? Or ‘cos they show I defied you?” Insull gave him a look; neither of them was _quite_ accustomed yet to Jiyong speaking his mind without getting a telling-off for his trouble. The younger man wondered if this particular change would survive what they’d just done, or if the regression to their old roles would mean him having to watch his tongue for fear of a spanking. He supposed he could live with it either way.

“Hmm,” Insull replied after a moment, and didn’t elaborate. Jiyong didn’t mind, just leaned into the familiar touch. Insull sighed and drew him close.

“Tell me about the old days,” said Jiyong after a while, drowsing in the crook of his arm; he knew he’d have to go back to his compartment soon, but if he could enjoy this strange feeling just a little longer… “Like you used to: the World’s Fair and Edison and the murder castle. And when you met the King.” He heard Insull huff in what was the nearest he ever came to a laugh; but he must’ve been agreeable to it because he gathered Jiyong closer and began to talk. The familiar timbre of his voice made Jiyong feel like a kid – all the more because Insull was ageing so. As the man spoke Jiyong saw that ever-present vision of the empty chair grow smaller, then dwindle into nothingness; with it came a deep sense of tranquility. He closed his eyes and imagined he was a boy again, in those luxurious months before he’d arrived at the House, that he was pampered and doted upon and had nothing else in the world to concern himself with – only this.

 

* * *

 

The pleasant fantasy didn’t last, of course: his grown-up problems began clamoring for attention as soon as he left the car. First among them was Seunghyun. For someone who’d seldom been troubled by sexual guilt Jiyong felt a staggering amount of it from the moment he stepped back into his own compartment – his real life. He greeted Seunghyun too eagerly when he returned from his night on the town, and the bigger man threw both arms around him and held him so tightly, so adoringly, that it made Jiyong’s eyes well up. Seunghyun was tipsy, he knew, and maybe that’s why he was so eager to make up; but despite that, or maybe even because of it, he radiated love. Jiyong nuzzled his head into Seunghyun’s neck and had a horrible flash of how heartbroken that lovely face would look if he found out what his beloved had done – and could wind up doing again.

Because that was the _thing_ : Jiyong’s problems didn’t stop at infidelity or even begin there. He’d had this out with Seunghyun long ago and he still stood by it: it wasn’t sex that was important, it was feelings, and he loved Seunghyun, best and foremost and first and forever – yes, they had difficulties, but who didn’t? What made his stomach clench with worry were the complicated emotions he was having regarding Mr. Insull. The worst part was that he couldn’t pin down exactly what they were, or why they’d grown enough to allow him to go to the man’s bed with barely an invitation. He supposed he’d been manipulated – only it didn’t feel like it. Part of it was pity, he _knew_ that; and that’d be the easiest thing to explain if he was ever called out. It was all Brown’s fault: if he hadn’t come around hounding Insull, if he hadn’t poked at the wasp’s nest of Jiyong’s pride and leftover loyalty, then Jiyong would most likely have gone on simply resenting Insull’s interference. But Brown had made him feel _sorry_ for the older man and his troubles.

Jiyong wished that was all it was; then he could label tonight a pity fuck and put down any future slip-ups to his own misguided compassion. But it wasn’t that convenient, he realized as he lay in bed later that night, Seunghyun warm and content against his back. His fright at seeing Insull last winter in Chicago proved that. Jiyong had been failing to figure _that_ one out ever since they’d skipped town. At the time he’d framed his panic as fear that Insull, having found them, might at last try to take out his old resentment on one or both of them. It was a sensible fear, Jiyong had insisted: the tycoon’s grudges were legendary. But now…now he wondered if some of it hadn’t been fear of _himself_ : fear of falling under his owner’s influence again…and the possibility that he might _like it_. Life in Insull’s grip had at times been horrible, true. But it’d also been luxurious, uncomplicated, and occasionally even enjoyable – and a whole hell of a lot more straightforward than independence and a normal relationship were proving to be. Jiyong loved his life with the Circus almost as much as he loved Seunghyun, but there was no denying both could be terribly challenging.

…There was something else, something connected to that, though whether it was to the luxury or the simplicity or merely to that sensation of the _past_ , he couldn’t say. He’d never been given to self-analysis before he met Seunghyun, who dived into it more than was probably healthy, and he was finding it hard going because this _guilt_ kept getting in the way. He was right on the edge of grasping it when Seunghyun let out a low rumble against the back of his neck.

“…Go to sleep, will you?” the older man muttered, so affectionately that Jiyong had to bite his tongue. His strong hands traveled warm over Jiyong’s hips to his shoulders. “You’re stiff as a board, it keeps waking me up.” He began to rub Jiyong’s shoulder-blades in slow, lazy circles that soothed his body if nothing else. “Whatever you’re so busy thinking about, it can wait.” Jiyong tipped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut.

“ _Sorry_ ,” he whispered. It was the most heartfelt apology he had ever made; he just prayed Seunghyun would never find out what it was for.

 

* * *

 

Before the jump to the next town Insull was gone, back to Chicago and _his_ real life. Jiyong was grateful for the reprieve though not stupid enough to imagine he’d be absent for long. In the meantime he was as loving to Seunghyun as he knew how to be, and the sight of his beloved’s rekindled warmth and confidence caused a most peculiar mixture of guilt and pleasure that kept Jiyong feeling wobbly but also defiant. At the next lot Brown showed up again with his bribes and threats and irritating tidbits of information. Jiyong refused to acknowledge him: Brown’s suppositions were now uncomfortably close to the truth.

The day after that a stranger called to see Jiyong. Summoned to the agent’s tent, he approached with an unsettled sensation in his stomach: what if the Fed had gotten sick of his surly behavior and requested that someone higher up take a crack at him? Jiyong felt too fragile to deal with another intrusive lawman right now.

“You’ve really caught someone’s eye,” Terrell warned him cryptically, grabbing his arm while he was dithering outside the tent. “The guy’s with the best in the business, so if you know what’s good for you watch your tongue and don’t fuck this up!” Heart in his mouth, Jiyong pushed through the canvas flaps and into the stuffy interior. In front of him was a tall, quiet-looking, dark-haired young man. Jiyong stared at him, afraid to speak first. The stranger opened his mouth, and in a New York accent told Jiyong what he wanted.

“You _agreed_?” said Seunghyun later in Korean, once Jiyong had spilled the whole story. The switch in language told the younger man he was in for it. “You signed it?!”

“Yeah, the gaffer told me to.” Terrell had practically forced the pen into his hand, but Jiyong would’ve signed anyway. “He’s with the _George Morris_ agency!” he explained again. “You know who else they manage _? Charlie Chaplin_! Harry Lauder the vaudeville guy, that new actress Mae West, she’s amazing, Tabi! Who the hell would say _no_?”

“You said this guy was just a kid.”

“Well, yeah, they’re hardly gunna give their best veteran to the likes of _me_ ,” pointed out Jiyong: the young manager – Joel Kaplan – was likely no more than twenty-three. “I’m probably his trial run. But still, they want me! The greatest talent agency in New York, not only in theaters and vaudeville but the _movies_.” Jiyong’s vanity and the distant but delicious prospect of success hadn’t been able to resist that.

“You know _why_ they want you?” Seunghyun shot back. “Think they picked out some Korean acrobat ‘cos of his sheer skill?” He gave a disparaging growl.

“Of course I know why.”

“And you just accepted it.”

“That’s how the entertainment world works.” Jiyong reached across the firework ingredients but Seunghyun stubbornly refused to take his hand. “I’m not gunna turn down anything that’ll help get us jobs during this Depression!”

“Say what you like,” said Seunghyun, his cheeks flushed with agitation. “Knowing it came from _him_ and taking it is exactly like letting him buy you diamonds – and all because you want that spotlight I’ll never be able to give you.” He slumped back against the car wall for a minute, then tugged his bandanna over his nose and resumed mixing his powders. Apparently he had nothing else to say to Jiyong. The younger man sat there sadly, with no intention of renouncing this stroke of great good fortune but still sick at its effect. At least Seunghyun didn’t have to know the rest of what Jiyong knew: that this sudden prestigious offer of management was not merely a gift but a _reward_.

 

* * *

 

The very next day Insull was back to watch the matinée as if he had no interest in his home or business at all; only the usual stacks of papers and telegrams gave away his workaholic nature. Jiyong changed out of his final costume into a nicely tailored pair of pants and a dress shirt – the best he owned, which wasn’t saying much.

“Seen Seunghyun?” he’d asked the group of sideshow acts who were eating their late lunch outside the cookhouse, enjoying the scented grasses whose perfume had been released by being trampled underfoot all morning. Jiyong wished his life could be that simple again.

“Think he’s headed to the post office,” called Flora. “He had a big envelope.” For a moment Jiyong wondered what it was: the older man’s mysterious correspondence seemed to be continuing. Someday Jiyong would get to the bottom of it, as soon as he and Seunghyun managed to reconcile. For now he headed back towards the train and wasted no time before thanking Mr. Insull for his present the best way he knew how. He didn’t mind, he found: it wasn’t at all unpleasant, and now he’d done it once it made no difference if he did it again. And he _was_ grateful.

It was only later, when Jiyong was making coffee, that the remorse returned; he’d never been allowed the drink as a boy and its smell promised no comforting nostalgia in which he might lose himself, only the dark, rich depths of his own guilt.

“What is it?” asked Insull, after Jiyong had been standing and staring at the boiling kettle for God knew how long. He pushed himself slowly off the bed and strolled down the car to get a better look at the young man’s face. “Allow me to guess: that boy. I suppose it was the George Morris agent that’s caused this latest upset?” Jiyong pursed his lips self-accusingly and nodded, turning away ‘cos he didn’t need Insull to know _every_ thought he had. Insull let out a vague ‘hmph!’, then briskly began making the coffee himself.

“I’m hurting him,” said Jiyong against the background of domestic sounds. “Every second I’m with you, and even when I’m not.”

“How operatic you’ve become,” said Insull, who oughta know. “Cream, yes?”

“It’s driving me nuts; _I’m_ driving me nuts!” Jiyong sniffed, wiped his eyes and turned back around. He took the hot coffee cups – the older man’s hands weren’t quite as steady as they used to be – and followed him back to the bed.

“The curse of monogamy,” Insull commented drily, as Jiyong passed him his cup before taking a perch at the other end of the luxurious quilt. Jiyong raised one corner of his mouth but couldn’t summon any actual humor.

“A fine thing for a family man to say.”

“But that’s not what _you_ are. And yet that boy makes demands as if you were?”

“He doesn’t ‘demand’ anything!” said Jiyong, bristling; what could this billionaire truly know about someone like Seunghyun? “He just _wants_ it.” There was the guilt again. He took a gulp of scalding coffee as punishment. “And the cruelest thing is that there’s nothing he can do about it; ‘cos he isn’t like you.”

“No,” agreed Insull, leaning back against the headboard. “ _I_ never put such a limit on you.” Jiyong set the cup down before he dropped it and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Right: you _literally_ let me sell myself to other people. And yet you still managed to act like any other jealous idiot.”

“Is that what you think I did?” Insull sounded sorta curious, and not the least bit inclined to rise to his protégé’s level and discuss all this like the disaster it was.

“Yeah, I do; with McGurn and then Seunghyun, him especially. Maybe that’s part of the reason you’re doing all this now, you ever think about that?”

“On occasion. But I’m finally too old for jealousy, and you were always too young – and I hope that if I did feel it now I would keep it to myself. After all, our time together may be short.” The moustache lifted a fraction and Jiyong recognized it as a smile. “All I ever required was that you satisfy me.”

“Huh!”

“And you do, in a number of respects and better than anyone else has come close to. What you do with yourself outside that is up to you: love who you please, lie with whom you please – it’s not my business unless you want it to be.” Jiyong listened, felt an instant’s warped appreciation, then groaned into his hands in frustration.

“You might have given me that speech back at the House! I could’ve used it there!”

“Mm. I may not have been so philosophical back then,” said Insull with some reluctance. “But if I’ve learned anything from these few dark years of history it’s to be thankful for what you have.” For a second his gray eyes looked troubled, and even in the younger man’s current misery Jiyong found the sight unnerving. “Risky to go grabbing for more,” Insull warned him.

“Then what should I do?” Jiyong asked, beginning to shiver without his warm drink; he felt drained and useless. “If I can’t have it all, what the hell do I _do_ about this mess?!”

“Do you really want my opinion, or are you attempting to be rhetorical?”

“No, don’t bother.” Jiyong sagged. “You haven’t a hope in hell of seeing this from my point of view – or Seunghyun’s. You’re too remote, Sir, with your Opera House and bulletproof cars; and sometimes that’s a comfort, just…it’s not very helpful now!”

“You’re distressing yourself,” Insull told him. “You won’t solve anything like that.” He observed his pet’s chilly form. “Come over here before you catch cold; we can’t have the artist missing a performance.”

Jiyong continued to sit there glumly at the foot of the bed, but when he glanced up he saw Insull watching him with the raised eyebrow that was the facial equivalent of impatient toe-tapping. So he crawled up over the covers and burrowed in beside him; at this point it was as easy to obey him as not. He tipped his head back and looked up at his old keeper; now would be a real fine time for Insull to make good on his promise to care for Jiyong, to take away his responsibility and for once be there to lean on. Today more than ever Jiyong wanted to be that pampered child – and lo and behold, the man was gunna come through for him! He was _smiling_.

“I shall tell you a new story,” said Insull, wrapping a quilted robe around Jiyong’s shoulders with a brief rub to warm them. “And perhaps you’ll see that we’re less wildly different than you think.”

“…Yeah,” murmured Jiyong, and laid his head on the pillow. “A bedtime story – that’s exactly what I want.”

 

* * *

 

Jiyong took a walk with Seunghyun the next day, willing and even eager to make it up with him. After all, nothing his lover had said had actually been untrue: Jiyong _was_ thinking of his own success and he _did_ dearly love the spotlight. The best way to console his Tabi was to spend time with him. Seunghyun was suspicious, thinking it was all a tactic; but Jiyong let his love for the bigger man flow freely, even going so far as to take an interest in Seunghyun’s scientific exploits with Jenny and Ezra. He didn’t understand any of it, but as the morning warmed up and they got further away from the lot Seunghyun began to unbend at his demonstrations of affection. By the time they were sitting in the shade with their legs in a stream, far from Circus and town, the atmosphere had become quietly comfortable. Jiyong rested against him, wrapped both arms around his ribcage and felt the steady beat of his heart; it skipped when Seunghyun quit giving him searching glances and instead gazed down at him with something close to that old adoring expression. The younger man loved this; he _loved_ it.

“Isn’t this better?” said Seunghyun softly. “Than rotting away in that luxurious prison.” Jiyong supposed he meant Insull’s car, though he might’ve been thinking of the House.

“Yes, Tabi.” Jiyong exhaled in an expression of pure laziness and leaned his head on Seunghyun’s shoulder.

“And…you’re not tired of living like this?” The deep rumble of the older man’s voice almost masked the insecurity of the question. Jiyong considered the hard work of Circus life and its relative privation; but so long as it could earn them a living he wouldn’t change it for the world.

“No,” he said firmly, and felt Seunghyun sigh. Again he had that thought: what could Mr. Insull know about Seunghyun, about the two of them, about being happy like _this_? Nothing. But about Jiyong himself and what he’d been through? Well, maybe a little more than Jiyong had guessed: lolling against his partner he recalled the tale the man had told him in bed yesterday. It’d been an autobiography; clipped and undramatic and dry as if it’d happened to someone else, but enough to quell Jiyong’s disquiet and soothe him into the past.

The boy in that story had been very like Jiyong; of course, when Mr. Insull was a kid it’d been way back in the last century and he sure as hell hadn’t been doing any sex work, but the similarities had engaged the other man just the same: leaving a poverty-stricken home at a young age, being dismissed by others for his humble origins, working punishingly hard and starting a life in a strange new world – in his case America. Jiyong could only hope his own road into his thirties would be like his patron’s; he too wanted a name and success. The wealth would come in handy as well. Then again… He glanced up at Seunghyun, at his hesitant expression of happiness, and wondered if the price of that success was worth it.

“I didn’t care for anyone’s opinion,” Insull had told him. “I had no interest in what society thought of me, not at that age: I only wanted to succeed.” He’d looked at Jiyong, who was listening wide-eyed; he’d known how that would resonate. “Later I wanted to help people from less fortunate walks of life rise as I did, which meant ignoring the private wishes of some prominent figures already in power[47]. As a result there are now many men who admire me for my mind and my diligence, just as they admire _you_ for your beauty and energy – and less than five who truly love me.” Jiyong couldn’t exactly say he felt sorry for Insull: he must’ve known what the outcome of his ambition would be. But for whatever reason he’d edged a little further into the older man’s arms.

“Was one of them Edison?” he’d asked. He knew his patron had grieved when the eccentric inventor died. Insull touched his hair briefly.

“…Yes,” he murmured, and Jiyong could hear the pride. “I’m glad to say I think he was.”

There on the bank of the stream Jiyong decided maybe that _was_ what he wanted after all: regardless of his need for the adoration of the crowd he thought he’d perhaps sacrifice being approved by many to be loved by a few. Seunghyun, his mother and sisters, his good friends in the Circus… He wished he didn’t care about adding Mr. Insull to that list, but he couldn’t deny it felt good as well as maddening to be cherished by him; and besides, he really had no other father figure now. What would he have to do to keep them all? he wondered.

“Wanna go back?” asked Seunghyun at the end of a long, peaceful silence. Jiyong returned to the present, felt the warmth of the May sunshine and Seunghyun’s body. He tucked his head beneath the older man’s chin.

“No,” he announced. Seunghyun grunted in satisfaction.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 46Unlike Hoover, Franklin D. Roosevelt was not an Insull fan, as he believed the government _should_ have oversight of private business. He’d had his eye on Insull even before becoming President: Insull gave such huge donations to political campaigns he thought would best serve his business interests that it actually affected the integrity of the Senate (this was a common practice but he really went all out with it). He was investigated for it in 1928 and was quite unrepentant. It somewhat tarnished Insull’s public image as he was then painted as the head of a monopoly who’d do anything for business success, regardless of legality or the welfare of the public. This was all good ammunition for FDR.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 47Insull was involved in a lot of philanthropic work, annoying many of the elite as he went about it. He funded education of African-American doctors, the Chinese YMCA, and other minority groups by bullying his fellow fat cats into donating. So to them he was a major pain in the arse. Wasik (2007) describes him as “a self-made mogul who gave electricity to the masses by financing, charming, cajoling, finagling, and outfoxing the most graft-loving politicians” (4), with “a genuine empathy for those that society traditionally ignored, which alienated many of his upper-class peers” (128). (Am I conveying how interesting I find this character? ^^;)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> The title song for this chapter is _'All Muddled Up'_ , performed by Paul Specht And His Orchestra in 1922.
> 
> To be honest I was initially a bit worried about this chapter. Actually I'm pretty satisfied with how it's turned out, but...well, I'll just wait and see what you guys think ^^;


	20. That's The Blues Old Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong learns several things he really didn't want to know - but how about Seunghyun?

“Soomin!” cried Jiyong on the Thursday, right after they’d finished setting up in the lot at Pittsburgh. He waved wildly at the distant figure of his sister, recognizable by her intrepid trousers and the taller figure of Daesung at her side. Seunghyun smiled down at him as they waited for the visitors to make their way down the Midway, and Jiyong squeezed his hand in excitement: he’d been waiting for this ever since Soomin left Chicago.

“We brought the whole gang!” the young woman informed them. “We left ‘em at the sideshow. They couldn’t wait to come, this whole project’s been pretty depressing. Cheer us up, huh?”

“But you’re all right?” asked Jiyong eagerly, taking her arm to lead her up to the train. Once they were in the compartment he sat her down and examined her carefully: was she healthy, was she happy? She seemed to be round-faced and lively as ever. Thank God, that was one weight off his mind.

“You want a drink?” Seunghyun was beaming, had already poured Daesung a glass of moonshine and soda. Soomin nodded, ignoring Jiyong’s raised eyebrow; well, she was an adult, after all. Soon the two college men were discussing Daesung’s project and Seunghyun’s bootlegging efforts. Jiyong tuned out and turned back to his sister.

“You heard from Chicago?” She nodded.

“It’s not so easy getting mail, they have to forward it on to us and it takes ages.”

“Tell me about it,” Jiyong agreed.

“But Dami writes, Bertie’s getting big. And Mama sends snacks sometimes – they never reach us in one piece though.”

“Does she write about…y’know, Dad?” A silence fell at that. Jiyong was almost sorry he’d said it: he figured Soomin still felt bad about trying to encourage their reunion.

“…Yeah,” she said at last. She reached out to take his hand. “He’s doing okay, he got the new leg in the end, the smart one.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah, apparently the hospital was dragging its feet but last week they suddenly got a hustle on and squeezed him in.”

“Good,” said Jiyong. For a moment he wondered if Mr. Insull hadn’t had something to do with that: he seemed determined to fix as many of the younger man’s practical problems as possible, taking Jiyong’s presence in his bed as tacit permission to meddle. As long as his dad never found out Jiyong supposed he could accept it.

“Here.” Soomin brightened up; she let go his hand to reach back into one of her traveling bags. After some rummaging she triumphantly drew out a square of thick paper and passed it to him with a smile. “Thought you might like this.” Jiyong felt a smile spread across his own face: it was a photograph of Seunghyun. It must be one of the shots she’d taken on that family day back in Chicago. It wasn’t expert quality – he guessed she’d gotten a lot better since then, the research team had been through five States already – but it certainly captured _something_. Seunghyun was glancing awkwardly at the camera, looking like he wasn’t sure if he oughta smile or not. Even so, his handsome features smoldered on the paper: that bone structure was made to be photographed.

“Look, Tabi,” called Jiyong softly, and showed him the picture. The real Seunghyun went pink in a way the monochrome version couldn’t.

“You’re very good,” he told Soomin, who batted her eyelashes at him to make him blush harder.

“I meant you,” said Jiyong with a fond nudge. “See how fine you look!” He wondered if he should get a frame or if it’d be nicer to keep it private, the way Seunghyun kept the photographs of him.

“You’re keeping it?” asked Seunghyun as the younger man took it back and tucked it away in a fashion magazine.

“Course!” Jiyong was surprised; why wouldn’t he? Seunghyun just beamed and ducked his head.

After some more chat they headed to the cookhouse for an early dinner. Jiyong paid to get his sister and Daesung meal tickets and they all sat outside the tent enjoying the sunshine while Seunghyun and Jiyong pointed out the interesting Cirkies who walked by.

“There’ve been a few changes since you last saw us,” said Seunghyun. “But the John Robinson acts are pretty good.”

“Frankly,” replied Daesung, “you’re lucky you’re still open. We’ve talked to some other entertainers, ones who lost their jobs: carnivals and circuses seem to be folding every month.” Seunghyun nodded. Jiyong sat quietly eating his hash and eggs; he didn’t mention that their luck was in part down to _him_.

“Who’s the stiff?” inquired Soomin presently. Jiyong blinked, where had she learned such slang? She’d sure grown up in her short weeks on the road. He followed her eye-line, and goddammit there was Mr. Insull, leaning on his cane and talking to Terrell by the agent’s tent. His bodyguard lurked close by.

“ _No-one_ ,” said Seunghyun after a glance in the same direction. Jiyong swallowed another mouthful and looked down to fiddle with his fork, hoping to avoid eye contact with his patron; it’d be terribly awkward if Insull wanted to see him today.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and turned Soomin’s attention to Sky High on the other side of the back yard. “No-one at all.”

 

“Is everything okay?” asked Soomin, after he’d taken her to meet some of the Cirkies and see if they wanted to be photographed; since Jiyong had introduced her as family a few of them had kindly agreed. Seunghyun and Daesung were off meeting the other members of the Chicago research team. Jiyong looked over at her.

“…Sure.” As a matter of fact things _were_ kinda okay – apart from the giant secret he was keeping that both removed and added to his burdens daily. He was glad he’d put in the effort to make things up with Seunghyun. “Why, is there something wrong with how I look?!”

“Not you,” said his sister, smacking his arm. “Although you _are_ sort of pale. No, Dae was just saying he thinks Seunghyun seems worn out… I don’t know him well enough to see it, but…you’d tell me if you were having any problems, right?” Jiyong smiled; of course he wouldn’t. He was all for deepening the relationship with his siblings now they’d connected again, but weighing down his little sister with his many issues was gunna play no part in that. It was enough that she blamed herself for the fiasco with their father.

“Sure I would,” he told her. “We’re all a bit on edge, that’s all – wondering if we’ll have another season.” He brightened. “But you heard I got a new manager?” Soomin nodded happily and they strolled back to the Midway to find their respective partners.

They had a wonderful time that night: the Chicago group loved the evening show – Jiyong suspected a few of the single guys liked the cooch tent even more – and afterwards they pitched their own tents on the edge of the lot as if there was nothing more normal for a bunch of college graduates to do. Of course Jiyong had offered Soomin his and Seunghyun’s bunk; but his sister, expertly whacking a guy-rope peg into the ground, only laughed at him.

“What was the point of sending you to private school if you’re gunna live like Paul Bunyan?”[48] said Jiyong with a bewildered smile.

“Funny, isn’t it,” agreed Soomin, pushing the hair back off her face with a sweaty palm. “You like the finer things far more than I do!” Seunghyun shook his head at both of them and led them back to the car, where he furnished everyone with drinks while the radio provided them with Sam Lanin’s version of ‘ _I Surrender Dear_ ’. Daesung whooped and immediately began dancing with his wife. Jiyong wasn’t surprised when Timtam and his other friends showed up, lured by the prospect of music and free liquor. The crowded party went on ‘til Jiyong’s neighbors got sick enough of it to band together and force them to shut it down. During the fun Jiyong slipped out and jogged down the train to say hi to Mr. Insull – the man slept less than four hours a night so he knew he’d find him up. Jiyong apologized sweetly and explained his family was visiting, then ran back to the party and danced with Seunghyun to his heart’s content. Seunghyun wrapped both arms around him and swayed to the music as if he and Jiyong had never said a cross word to each other. Jiyong leaned into him, lips against his shoulder, and felt a wave of satisfaction that he was finally managing to please everyone.

Soomin and Daesung went on their way the following day after a few more pictures and interviews. To Jiyong it was as though they’d left some of their infinite good cheer behind: he and Seunghyun hadn’t argued in a week, even Timtam was less scrappy than usual – Jiyong thought he’d enjoyed being the focus of Soomin’s camera and attention. Mr. Insull came and went and Seunghyun grumbled but resisted starting any fights about it. Jiyong felt a slight increase in concern for his sponsor ‘cos the older man seemed quieter with every train ride out from Chicago; but when he’d arrived yesterday he’d brought fewer piles of paper than usual, so maybe he could relax a bit more. Compared to the way things had been two weeks ago Jiyong found himself relatively content: his life was still a balancing act, but he thought he’d found his footing. That was before Brown showed up again.

 

* * *

 

The investigator was _very_ excited today, thought Jiyong, annoyed. He hadn’t come around in a while, which had played no small part in the younger man’s sense of wellbeing. Now here he was, in another rumpled suit and with his eternal notebook, weaving his way through the tents toward Jiyong like an eager puppy. He greeted Jiyong in a friendly fashion and seemed undismayed when he turned on his heel and walked away. Brown followed, his longer legs keeping up with irritating ease. He began by offering Jiyong money again: a definite sum this time and one that made Jiyong’s eyes widen.

“No,” said Jiyong firmly.

“You really oughta think about it,” wheedled Brown around his cigarette. He took Jiyong’s arm, ignoring his look of affront. “This could be your last chance.”

“Does that mean you’re going away?” asked Jiyong sweetly. “To the North Pole, maybe?”

“No. It means time’s run out for your keeper, and so have your opportunities to gain some points for yourself by telling us what you know _freely_.”

“Whaddya mean it’s run out?!” cried Jiyong. For a second he stopped, then realized Brown was just angling for his full attention and quickly walked on. “Never mind, I know you’re fulla shit.”

“It’s not an act, is it,” replied Brown before his next drag on the roll-up. “You’re an ignorant creature.”

“Dunno what you mean.”

“I mean your Sam Insull.”

“Oh, for…!” Jiyong threw up his hands. “Leave it alone,” he suggested. “Aren’t you tired of this investigation already? I’m never gunna tell you anything about him! Anyhow, from where I’m looking he seems to be doing fine.”

“You… Do you not follow the news at _all_?” asked Brown, like he couldn’t conceive of anyone not being glued to the papers.

“You think I got time to read?” snapped Jiyong. He picked up his pace but the taller man kept up easy.

“Not even on the radio?”

“I only listen to jazz.”

“You really are what I expected,” Brown told him with a hint of a snigger that was hardly gunna make Jiyong want to stick around and talk to him. “The only thing that stumps me is why you won’t answer my questions. I threaten you with a subpoena and you ignore it; I offer good money for your testimony and you throw it in my face. What kind of rent-boy _are_ you?”

“No kind!” Goddamn Brown, he sounded more like a gutter reporter than a government official or even a private Dick – there was no way his constant obsession with sex could help this financial…whatever it was, and with his turning up again Jiyong’s good mood of the past week had evaporated.

“Don’t give me that; if you weren’t having liaisons with Sam Insull he wouldn’t still be hanging around, not when he’s in such deep shit. Actually, I can’t believe he _is_ – you really must be something to write home about.” Jiyong stopped walking and whipped his head toward the investigator: these veiled references to some kinda disaster looming were coloring Jiyong’s whole view of Insull, and look what that’d gotten him into – once and for all he wanted _answers_.

“You’ve been hinting for ages that he’s in trouble, that there’s this big old court case you’re trying to book him for…but you won’t tell me _anything_! All you ever wanna know is how I am in bed!” Brown shrugged – Jiyong could tell he wanted to laugh. “What kinda investigator _are_ you?”

“We need all the pieces of the puzzle,” the jerk said cryptically.

“Just _tell me what’s happening_!”

“If you tell _me_ something, I’ll tell you.” Jiyong bared his teeth at him. “Or just ask your sugar daddy,” said Brown, unfazed. “Better yet, read the Chicago papers – everything’s coming out.” He tipped his hat at Jiyong and for once left of his own accord. Jiyong narrowed his eyes at the man’s back; no, this didn’t feel right, this insistence combined with Brown’s fine mood was weird. He wasn’t sure why he thought so, but something fishy was going on – he knew it. Making a snap decision he ducked under a guy-rope and jogged after Brown on the other side of the tents, taking care not to be seen: time for a little investigation of his own.

Brown wandered round the still-bustling Midway for a while, watching the kinkers advertise their acts and the butchers tout their goodies at the brightly striped stalls. The creep lit another roll-up and observed the Long Island new-money rubes with interest; the way some of these people flaunted their wealth in the midst of the worst Depression was certainly something to see. Nevertheless, the Fed’s eyes beneath their bushy brows looked mildly dissatisfied now. Jiyong hoped _he_ was the one who’d caused it. Brown chatted with a few of the kinkers as he strolled by – none of them was particularly keen on Jiyong so he couldn’t ask them what they’d talked about – and scribbled notes in his dog-eared book. It’d really help to take a look at that thing! thought Jiyong, wondering how he could get at it.

“What ya doin’?” croaked Ed curiously, making him jump; the Ostrich and his girlfriend Lena stepped around him and his hiding-place behind a balloon stall.

“Have you ever talked to that guy?” asked Jiyong in turn. There was no-one more in tune with Circus gossip than the lanky Midwesterner. Ed frowned.

“What guy?” The younger man peered around: dammit, Brown was gone!

“Never mind,” he said quickly. He got an odd look from Ed then, part doubt and part concern, but he didn’t have time to worry what his friends thought of him, he had enough on his plate. Before Ed could get him into a conversation he smiled at the couple and slipped off behind the Midway. Where _was_ the detective?

It was a fluke that he found him. Jiyong was headed for the back yard on a hunch that Brown might be looking for more kinkers to weasel secrets outta; he glanced up momentarily toward the distant train and saw the untidy outline of his quarry, the creased suit and fedora worn shiny in patches with use. As he watched someone short came hustling up to the man, who seemed to be waiting. With great caution Jiyong headed in the same direction; it was tricky with little cover between the edge of the back yard and the train, but a scraggly bush gave him just enough camouflage to get a glimpse of the two figures. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he saw the person – too tall for a dwarf but maybe a kid or the shortest equestrienne – hand what looked like a folded newspaper to Brown. In return the investigator passed his contact something flimsy and flat; there were a few more words, then the smaller figure dashed away towards the town of Huntington. Brown removed his hat and fanned himself with it, watching the runner with what seemed to be complacence.

That was enough for Jiyong: he shot out from behind the bush and back into the forest of tents, running parallel with the other person and outta sight of Brown. When he emerged he was a distance from the townward path and the other figure had a head-start. Jiyong pushed himself and put on speed – he thanked God he’d chosen such an athletic profession now! He sprinted through the yellow-green grass, angling for the railroad track, and with an effort caught up to the runner – he wasn’t sure why, but he knew in his bones he _had_ to see that small object.

“Hey, wait!” he yelled, thinking that he’d have to physically take the fleeing shape down. To his surprise the person stopped and waited in an easy attitude for him to come pounding up. It was one of the all-trade kids, the son or little brother of a train supervisor; the expression on his freckled face said he thought Jiyong was cuckoo.

“Yeah?” said the boy.

“Say…” panted Jiyong, “what’d that guy give you?” The kid stared at him owlishly, the too-large straw hat tied with string under his chin tipping back as he eyed the crazy kinker blocking his way. “I’ll give you a quarter if you show me.” The boy stuck out his hand; Jiyong dug around for a coin and gave it him, then held out his own palm.

“Only a message,” the boy told him, handing over a small folded strip of paper.

“Where were you taking it?!” Jiyong hurriedly smoothed it out.

“Telegraph office.” He had it open now. In deliberately printed characters that’d be clear for an operator to read, it said:

_Editor-in-chief, 435 North Michigan Ave., Chicago, Illinois:  
INFORMANT STILL STUBBORN BUT ARTICLE OK STOP BACK TMRW STOP WF._

Jiyong went cold as he read it: editor? Article? He pursed his lips hard enough to make them numb as the realization hit him.

“You know who that guy is?” he demanded breathlessly.

“Naw.” The boy sounded laconic, like this was all in a day’s work.

“How much’d he pay you to send it? I’ll give you the same again not to!”

“…A buck,” said the kid, a tad doubtful as if he knew he was pushing his luck. Jiyong immediately shoved a dollar bill into his hand.

“I’m keeping this!” He closed the message in his palm. That only got him a shrug; the young messenger pocketed the money and trotted around him, continuing into town to spend his fortune. Jiyong stood there staring at the telegram, sick all over at how neatly he’d been fooled.

He wouldn’t tell anyone else yet: he had to know the worst for himself. He strode back to the lot and resumed his search for Brown – or whoever the hell he was. A journalist! Jesus Christ, why’d everyone bought that line about the IRS so easily?! He oughta have _guessed_ from the bastard’s fixation on smut and scandal that he wasn’t a real agent but was using the façade of authority to make people think they should talk. _That_ was how he’d found out about Jiyong’s past: for the gutter press that kinda low investigation was their bread and butter. So, if his goal wasn’t to collect evidence for a court case…what _did_ he want with Mr. Insull? And what trouble might Jiyong have caused by refusing him?

There was little more than an hour to go before the evening show prep when Jiyong found him, examining that goddamn notebook in the shade between two back yard tents. As soon as he saw the man Jiyong felt a lump of anger and humiliation rise in his throat. Brown spotted him approaching and got up, a pleased expression on his lying mug – the younger man had never come to him of his own accord before. He opened his mouth.

“You _are_ a reporter!” cried Jiyong furiously before he could speak, brandishing the telegram. Brown scowled at the scrap of paper and for a second looked like he was thinking about denying it; then he grinned ruefully and held out the newspaper he’d had folded under his arm, the one the boy had brought him.

“ _Chicago Tribune_ , that’s me. Walter Fitzmaurice.”[49] He tossed the paper aside when Jiyong made no move to take it, and held out his hand instead. “Took you long enough.”

“Get outta here, you vulture!” Jiyong was angry enough to kick the bastard – and himself. “You think I’m gunna give your rag a story _now_?” The taller man chuckled.

“Kid, there’s enough story coming out on Sam Insull to fill a thousand papers: financial mishandling, shady dealings with the banks, all the numbers games. And we’ve got the human cost, too – the poor plant workers losing everything after their stocks in his companies got wiped out, the starving farm widows in Illinois. He even knew Capone[50]; that’s a pretty good comparison, in fact, I’ll use that. And _you’re_ the icing on the cake.” Jiyong felt the blood leave his face but Brown – _Fitzmaurice_ – wasn’t done. “Once someone in power like Roosevelt has a chance to get his teeth sunk in your sugar daddy’s gonna wind up the incarnation of corporate evil for the whole of America. But it’s all of his own making, so don’t give me that look. You oughta be more worried about your own skin: he’s in deep personal trouble, and when whatever money he’s invested in this place runs out I reckon Sells-Floto is _done for_.”

“If that’s true,” snapped Jiyong, who to his dread supposed a good half of it was but hoped it wasn’t, “why the hell’re you hanging around here?! He’s going back to Chicago tomorrow, isn’t he? You can tar and feather him without my help!” Fitzmaurice smiled at him and picked up his satchel; God, he looked _so_ much like a reporter, how could Jiyong not have seen it?!

“Because of the publishing principle _you_ oughta know better than any of us.” He paused for effect. “ _Sex sells_. And my paper’s willing to pay, though I daresay your mouth doesn’t come cheap.” Jiyong narrowed his eyes, aggravated beyond thinking at the audacity of the man. “This is your last chance to tell the story in your own words,” added Fitzmaurice. “If you don’t, you know we can paint you and him however we want.” Jiyong’s hands were beginning to tremble, although it wasn’t for himself.

“I’d say ‘fuck you’,” he told the press-rat sweetly. “But you’d never get lucky enough for _that_.” Fizmaurice gave him a long, measuring look, and Jiyong glared right back.

“Really, no?” The reporter laughed again. “I think that makes you unique among hookers. Please yourself; I’ll try and tell the story anyway. I’ll send you a copy when it’s printed!” Oh, Jiyong had had enough now! He looked around, saw the menagerie workers acting bored on one side of the back yard and a bunch of canvasmen adjusting tents on the other. And he’d wanted to try this just once, ever since they’d joined Sells-Floto. He sucked in a breath and at the top of his lungs bawled out:

“ _Hey Rube!!_ ”

The men all quit what they were doing, as usual hoping for something more entertaining than the daily graft. A few of them strode over while the others eyed the confrontation hopefully: to some of these guys a good fight was the best afternoon sport they could wish for.

“You called it, little Dragon?” said the baggage-stock hostler eagerly. Fitzmaurice’s eyes were widening, Jiyong noted in satisfaction. He nodded.

“He’s a goddamn newshound. He’s gunna print lies about the Money Man and me, and what happens to our backing then?!”

“Nice summarization,” said Fitzmaurice drily, taking a step backward. “But unfortunately for you, my articles _never_ lie.” The roustabouts, weekly pay ever on their minds, muttered to each other.

“Besides,” said Jiyong in the most offended tone he could muster, “he called me a whore!” That was enough for the menagerie men, most of whom were sweet on him either for his looks or his willingness to help with the animals for free.

“Hey Rube it is,” said the hostler with a grin, removing a leather crop from his boot and thwacking it against his leg – no Cirkies really cared for interlopers and they didn’t need much of an excuse. Fitzmaurice took one look at the switch; then without another word he turned on his heel and legged it. Panting, Jiyong slipped aside as the Circus men bundled forward _en masse_ and took off after the reporter in the direction of the station.

Jiyong felt a burn of angry gratification in his gut – he figured Fitzmaurice would probably get off without much of a licking, he looked pretty spry. But it oughta warn him. And the workers would have their fun. He picked up the newspaper Fitzmaurice had thrown aside and held it to his chest. He hadn’t been near a Chicago rag since Seunghyun had read the Arts and Society highlights to him last winter, and he was afraid of what it would contain: he didn’t wanna see Mr. Insull libeled and barely wanted to know the truth. But he knew he’d have to look. As he stood there dithering up came Seunghyun with his arms full of fireworks.

“…What the hell just happened?” asked the taller man, gesturing at the now-distant band of avenging angels. He sounded a bit tentative. Jiyong wasn’t surprised, given the way they’d been with each other before their most recent truce; it was sweet of his Tabi to come check on him. He sighed, then sank down on his heels and passed Seunghyun the newspaper. His hands were still shaking.

“Read it, willya? I don’t dare. And then I’ll explain what’s going on.”

 

* * *

 

They had a huge fight over that newspaper. It hadn’t started that way but it didn’t take long to get there, and in a matter of minutes the past week’s sweetness had turned sour on Jiyong’s tongue. As Seunghyun read whatever trash the _Tribune_ had printed his handsome face began to glow with such a look of vindication, of triumph, that Jiyong knew whatever the story was, it was _bad_. The older man eventually folded the paper and patted it with an expression almost of relief. Then he told Jiyong what was in it. This took some time, and by the end Jiyong could barely keep his dismay inside – dismay, and a desperate wish that it not be true, because if was it meant the end of everything.

“But wasn’t it a Hey Rube?” asked Seunghyun once he was done, nodding in the directing of the vanished Cirkies. “What was all _that_ about? It sure wasn’t Insull they were chasing!”

“We just found out,” said Jiyong miserably. “Brown’s name isn’t Brown and he’s no IRS agent, not even a P.I.” Seunghyun looked confused. “He’s a _reporter_ , Tabi – that’s his goddamn newspaper you’ve got there! So they chased him outta here.” He wanted to cry at how stupid he’d been: none of them had ever asked the bastard for his credentials, he’d known so much and had such an authoritative manner they’d simply accepted his word! Seunghyun’s eyes opened wide at this revelation; his hand shot out to grip Jiyong’s arm.

“He wants more on the story?” The smaller man nodded, wrist smarting a bit at his lover’s tight grasp. “Then give it to him,” said Seunghyun in a jarring turnaround from his previous opinion of the investigator. “Go after him and tell him!” Jiyong stared at him.

“Why the hell would I tell him anything more now I know he’s a journalist than I would when I thought he was a cop?!”

“Why _wouldn’t_ you? Now that it’s safe?”

“Huh?” Jiyong felt a deep frisson of foreboding begin to rise in his stomach; what was Seunghyun suggesting?!

“He’s not a Fed: he’s got no power to charge you or make any kind of real trouble for you; he can’t make you take an oath, can’t ask you to testify in court.” Seunghyun _smiled_ , and there was so much satisfaction in it Jiyong felt sick. “So you can make a deal, in strict confidence, of course: tell him everything about Insull without worrying about any legal mess or having your name outed in public – like you wanted. You can even take his money if you like.”

“ _What_?”

“Why not?” said Seunghyun, with an expression that reflected the many things Jiyong _had_ taken money for in his time. “The people deserve to hear the truth about Insull even if it doesn’t make it to court. This is the perfect way, Jiyong. Besides, if you don’t…Brown’s got the mouthpiece of that newspaper and probably half the tabloids; he could so easily publish anything he likes about you, much easier than a real Fed could! And how would your dad react _then_?”

“No.” Jiyong couldn’t believe the older man was asking it.

“Why?” Seunghyun looked equally incredulous. “We’ve wanted Insull off our backs since the day he turned up here. For that, and for all those years of constraint and servitude and loneliness – don’t you want _payback_?”

“This isn’t about Mr. Insull,” said Jiyong fiercely, ignoring that; “it’s about _principle_ : I’m not a rat! And the last person I’d speak to is this lying press-hound!”

“It’s absolutely about Insull. He doesn’t think twice before getting revenge, and you shouldn’t either now you have the chance!”

“No,” said Jiyong again.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.” Seunghyun stared at him; he looked pale now, dark eyes huge in his head.

“…You want to protect him!!” Jiyong didn’t say anything, just covered his wince at that tone with a resolute stare of his own. “ _Why_?” demanded Seunghyun in a low voice.

“‘Cos…” The younger man wondered which out of the many and muddled reasons he oughta give. “…I guess I feel sorry for him: he’s an old man.” He picked up the horrible accusing newspaper. “Look at this rag, Seunghyun. If even half these things are true he could be ruined anyway!”

“And if the other half are true he’s a criminal.”

“I don’t care,” said Jiyong. “We’re all three of us criminals, in case you’ve forgotten, and I won’t be the one to help take him down! In fact I’m gunna tell him all about this…this _chicanery_.”

“Don’t get involved with it!” snapped the older man, clearly scandalized that he’d choose to of his own volition. “He made his bed, let him lie in it by himself!” Jiyong felt himself flush at the turn of phrase and was glad Seunghyun was too angry to notice. “I mean it,” said Seunghyun. “‘Cos if you _do_ help him and some real agents find out, you could wind up an accessory!” Jiyong chewed on his lip; he hadn’t thought of that.

“I just wanna hear it from his own mouth: what’s happening, and what’s gunna happen to _us_ , to Sells-Floto!”

“Jiyong…”

“Look, I’m gunna talk to Mr. Insull. And I’m _never_ speaking to that weasly newspaper hack again!”

“I don’t _understand_ ,” Seunghyun entreated, ignoring the finality in his tone. “It could help get rid of him for good, you’d finally be _free_. Isn’t that what you always wanted?” Jiyong bit his lip harder. “Unless…”

“Yeah?”

“Unless you care what happens to him.” Seunghyun said the words like they were so far outside the sphere of his imagination he might as well be reading them from some foreign book of fantasy. Jiyong kept his face carefully immobile, something he’d learned many years ago in the House: his beloved was close, so close to seeing the truth of what had been going on. He couldn’t hurt him like that.

“I told you a long time ago,” he said slowly, “that I’d never hate Mr. Insull.”

“…You did. And I didn’t understand it then! But I accepted it ‘cos you wanted to run from him, to be with _me_ – I was so amazed I couldn’t think of anything else. I was sure when he forced you back into his life that you’d reject his control. But then you didn’t; I thought that was because you’re a practical man.” Seunghyun was speaking quietly, putting his thoughts together as he went along, the furrow between his thick eyebrows growing deeper with every realization. “I figured you hated him now like I do. But you _don’t_.”

“No. And don’t ask me why: I don’t know.”

“…You let him put you in Ring One. You accepted the offer of that swell new manager.” Seunghyun’s grip on his arm grew tighter. “What else have you let him do?!”

“I let him complete the house purchase for my mom and dad,” said Jiyong defiantly; he was bound to find out sooner or later anyway. The bigger man’s hand retreated to clench into a fist at his side. “It was taking so _long_ ,” Jiyong explained, remembering how fretful he’d felt the whole time his parents’ home was in jeopardy. “And it wasn’t your fault! But Mr. Insull still has the clout to make it happen like _that_.” He snapped his fingers. “…Even if that newsrag _is_ true.” There was a silence.

“That,” Seunghyun told him presently in a distant kinda voice, “makes a whole lot of sense. I get it now, Jiyong: why you won’t talk to that reporter, why you won’t tell _anyone_.”

“…Why?” asked Jiyong unwillingly. Seunghyun smiled again.

“Because you’re still a gold-digger.” He held up a hand to silence Jiyong’s retort. “Oh, don’t say you aren’t or that I should’ve known it all along: I did. I just forgot ‘cos I assumed you were like me – that you’d never willingly put up with a man who’s done you so much wrong. But that was dumb, huh? I mean, why would you ever try to topple your personal ticket to success?”

“That’s not fair,” whispered Jiyong. But Seunghyun didn’t know that, did he, didn’t understand how much more messed up and complicated this whole thing ran. How could he? Jiyong had taken the greatest care that he _wouldn’t_ know.

“No, it’s not fair! Not to me, or to _us_. You’ve not thought of anyone besides yourself since that man started handing out presents.” Jiyong bit his tongue to keep from telling him that, on the contrary, this whole thing had begun ‘cos he was trying to protect the Circus and everyone in it; at this point Seunghyun would never believe he’d been pressured into staying. He recalled the awful contents of the newspaper: if it were true, what’d happen to that lofty goal now? And would it change anything between the three of them? He gazed pleadingly at the other man. “This has to _stop_ ,” Seunghyun said flatly. “If you won’t tell Brown what you know about Insull’s dealings, I will. I heard plenty of things tending bar in that House.” Jiyong rounded on him.

“If you do I’ll never forgive you! I mean it!” His lover looked skeptical. “We’ll see if I hold a grudge as hard as the man who made me,” Jiyong told him fiercely, and _that_ got a flinch out of him. Seunghyun’s big eyes played over his face, trying to read him and see if it was all bluster or if he really meant it. Jiyong wasn’t sure himself, but it musta been convincing: his lover gave a nod – just one. Then he picked himself up from beside Jiyong, looked down on him – in every sense of the phrase – and strode away. Jiyong put a hand over his mouth and allowed himself to start trembling, with the distress of hurting Seunghyun and at the contents of that newspaper; he felt that between the two of them his Tabi and Mr. Insull might unwittingly tear him apart. He raised a hand and saw it quiver. How would he possibly get through this night?

 

* * *

 

He had to go on anyway, the Big Top wouldn’t wait. He went looking for Seunghyun after but in the chaos of tear-down and loading he couldn’t find him. Jiyong didn’t know whether he wanted to make Seunghyun say sorry or if he needed to apologize himself – he couldn’t stop thinking about the way his poor Tabi had looked when he’d flat-out refused to do anything that’d harm Insull. He ducked beneath an elephant’s belly and up the steps to the sideshow car.

“Seen Seunghyun?” he asked urgently.

“Nope,” said Timtam. Jiyong knew he must have, and not too long ago: his small friend was lying in his bunk cuddling a full bottle of liquor.

“Timtam!” The dwarf waved a vague hand.

“Think he was helping load the Cannonball’s gear.” Jiyong jumped back down and pushed through the mass of people and animals to the baggage cars near the engine: no Seunghyun. He jogged back along the train, peeking into their own compartment in case his lover had returned, but nothing. Genuinely flustered now – he couldn’t say if it was worry or irritation – he hurried along to Cliff Aeros’s carriage, but the sociable German wasn’t there. A baggage horse snapped at him as he was coming out, catching a mouthful of his sleeve. Jiyong was almost light-headed with frustration, the crowd of roustabouts and kinkers and rail-riders trying to hop the train making it impossible to think, let alone find one man who probably wasn’t in the mood to be found. He pushed his way along almost blind in the busy darkness, back and back down the cars.

Insull’s door was open, spilling soft light onto the steps. Jiyong knew he wouldn’t find Seunghyun _there_ but he pulled himself up and inside: and there was quiet and calm and Mr. Insull staring at a sheaf of papers with a deep furrow between his eyebrows like he was looking right through them. Without even thinking Jiyong went to him, wanting to be soothed. Then he realized he wouldn’t even have that, not ‘til he’d done what Seunghyun had expressly wished him not to: told Insull everything and _heard_ everything for himself.

The older man glanced up from his armchair and set the papers aside as soon as he saw the state of his charge. He beckoned calmly to Jiyong, who padded across to stand in front of him, hip against the desk for support.

“What is it?” said Insull gently; for a moment his eyes darted back to those official-looking papers. Jiyong didn’t like to ask what they were – he figured he’d know soon enough.

“…I was looking for Seunghyun,” he said in an embarrassingly breathless voice. “We…had an argument.”

“Over what?” Insull gave him his full attention at last, as if there was nothing more riveting he could be dealing with at this moment than Jiyong. Only that wasn’t true, was it? Jiyong cast about in search of a sensitive way to get his sponsor talking about what’d been happening.

“Over you.” There were hardly any arguments these days that weren’t. Insull raised his eyebrows patiently: this was old news. “Not like that, Sir,” said Jiyong helplessly. “About…about what oughta happen to you.” The older man understandably looked rather startled at that: the moustache moved a whole half-inch. Oh, there was no tactful way to bring this up! Jiyong took a deep breath. “There was a reporter here asking questions,” he confessed, no longer able to hide his distress. Insull’s lips thinned but he didn’t look surprised.

“About me? There are always a few,” he told Jiyong. “Don’t pay him any mind.” His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Did he give you his name?”

“Fitzmaurice. He said he works for the _Tribune_. Only…” Jiyong paused, fingers clasped so tightly together his knuckles turned white. He saw that Insull had noticed and was visibly frowning. “He’s been coming around for ages, almost since you started backing us, only he didn’t tell anyone he was a newshound – he’s been saying he’s a government investigator, using a fake name.” The older man sat up at that, and was there a tiny hint of unease beneath that cool veneer? Jiyong really hoped not.

“What did he want?”

“From the others? I don’t know. But from me… He started off telling me Cook County was thinking of auditing your…I dunno, corporations or ‘holding companies’ or whatever, and they needed any money-related information: how much you’re investing in Sells-Floto, whether you’d mentioned any financial difficulties, stuff like that.” Jiyong wished he could remember the details but that jargon was over his head.

“Go on,” said Insull coolly.

“So I asked why the heck he wanted to talk to _me_ of all people. Why not just Terrell and the agents? And he said everyone told him how interested you are in me, so he figured I might know something.” Jiyong swallowed, and before he knew it he was on his knees beside the older man’s chair, both hands clinging to the armrest. This was gunna be the worst part. “But _he_ knew everything, Sir: all my history with you. He knew about the House and the Opera trips – he thinks I’m still whoring for you! And he said he could use it to get me in trouble if I didn’t give him all the details, everything I knew about your affairs – and ours.”

“…And did you?”

“No, Sir!” cried Jiyong, hurt to the verge of tears that Insull could think that of him. “Not when I thought he was a detective, and not today when I found out the skunk was a hack all along. I _wouldn’t_.”

“I thought not,” said his sponsor gravely; one hand rose to touch Jiyong’s cheek.

“But he said he’ll try and get the story printed anyway!” Jiyong couldn’t imagine how bad it would be, not just for his own budding career but for Insull’s dangerously fragile public image: the dry, almost puritan philanthropist becoming known as the pimp and lover of a Chicago immigrant boy! It’d make it so much easier for people to believe everything…everything Jiyong had read in that paper.

“Perhaps.” Insull sounded oddly calm. “But perhaps he won’t need to bother – the Chicago press has already had the effect it no doubt desired.” His gray gaze sharpened. “What about that young man of yours?”

“He won’t either,” announced Jiyong staunchly, silently praying it was true. “I made him swear he wouldn’t say anything, no matter how much he dislikes you. And he knows it’d harm _me_ as much as you. That’s what we’ve been fighting about.” He let out a shaky sigh.

“Ah.” Insull crooked one finger beneath the younger man’s chin and tilted his face up, and Jiyong was dismayed to find the digit unsteady. “…What has you so upset?” he asked. “If I’m not concerned, you certainly have no need to be.” Jiyong felt his eyes well up.

“…Because he showed me his newspaper: yesterday’s edition.” Insull removed his hand, and the moustache took an extremely solemn cant. “He’s been telling me from the start that your affairs aren’t in order, that you might be involved in all sorts of trouble. I figured that was natural after the Crash. But it was only today that I realized…” He swallowed hard. “ _Please_ , I gotta know.”

“What is there to realize?” Of course, the man was gunna be stubborn about it.

“I read _all_ of it, Sir,” said Jiyong. Insull’s face as usual gave little away; but he looked tired as hell. “And didn’t understand much. Just enough to know your empire’s in _trouble_ , bad enough to destroy you: that your own brother was embezzling, that your holding companies have folded, that they made you resign from the corporations _you_ built ‘cos the stocks have bottomed out… That they think it’s all your fault and they’re gunna arrest you for _fraud_ …” His voice caught at the thought of it. “-And that they’re saying you’re to blame for a million other ruined lives.”[51]

“If they’re not saying it now they’ll be saying it soon,” said Insull, leaning back in his neat way as if his coming clean at this juncture wasn’t a bombshell at all. Jiyong felt a stab of dismay: he’d wanted the older man to deny the reports, to reassure him things weren’t so very awful! At the very least he wanted to _understand_.

“Please,” he entreated softly, taking Insull’s sleeve in both hands. “Can’t you explain it to me? I know I’m not smart like these reporters, but…if things are bad I want you to be able to talk to me. I’ve always liked to listen to you, Sir,” he cajoled, finally prompting a sigh. Insull reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Jiyong’s ear.

“My boy, I talk about this disaster constantly: over and over without end, to my associates and family and auditors, and everyone else who has come at me since it began.” He looked grim now, and older than Jiyong had ever seen him. “I should like to have just one person near me who is clean of this damned rotten business, who will trust my word that I’ve acted for the best even though it has come to the worst. And that has to be you, or no-one.”

“ _Yes_ ,” whispered Jiyong immediately, pleased and proud in the middle of his distress that he didn’t have to be useless. Insull patted his head, and the younger man captured his hand and held it between his own. “Only tell me this,” said Jiyong, meeting his eyes. “Are you going bankrupt?”

“Yes,” said Insull flatly. Then he leaned down and kissed him. Jiyong, suspecting he couldn’t stand to discuss his loss any further, met him halfway. There was no more talking.

 

* * *

 

Later Jiyong lay there looking tiredly at the wallpaper in the dim light. It was very beautiful, the best that money could buy. _How_ had it been bought? he wondered. If Mr. Insull’s financial troubles had begun early last year, as the _Tribune’s_ articles claimed, how had the tycoon possibly managed to fund this lovely compartment, Jiyong’s costumes and gifts, and the entire Circus? Either he _had_ been doing backhand deals and bank fraud as Fitzmaurice had insinuated, or he’d put himself even further into personal debt for whatever fulfillment came from supporting Jiyong. It was hard to tell which mortified Jiyong more.

He felt a tear slide silently along his nose and onto the pillow. Again, he wasn’t sure why: pity for Insull? Or for himself, at knowing this avenue of escape into fantasy, this place where he could discard his responsibilities, would soon be gone – perhaps forever? He sniffed, timing it so the rattle of the wheels would mask the sound; the train was in motion, had begun rolling out while Jiyong was stepping out of his clothes into Insull’s embrace. There was no getting back to Seunghyun tonight, not unless he decked the train like a hobo, and his patron would never allow that; Insull might be near ruin but there was no way he was gunna start letting Jiyong get away with anything so dangerous. Besides, Jiyong didn’t want to go. Not right now.

Insull’s eyes had opened: Jiyong would know the feel of that indulgent gaze anywhere, even when aimed at his back. He hoped the man hadn’t heard him crying.

“…My dear Jiyong,” came Insull’s voice in his ear as two arms slid protectively around his chest. He spoke gently, and to his wonder the younger man could actually hear regret, as if Insull had been wrestling with whether to speak at all. “I’m very much afraid I won’t be able to care for you any longer – or for this Circus. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jiyong whispered, and turned to burrow into the familiar embrace. Of course he understood: he would soon have to take the weight of his own life again. He felt lips against his hair – followed by a wave of great pity for his patron, that things had come to the point where he was finally forced to admit he had lost to this Depression. He sighed, blinked back a rogue tear, and laid his head down with the determination to lose himself in the past for one more night. “But stay as long as you like.”

 

* * *

 

The train stopped before it was really morning. Jiyong resented that because in all senses it meant he had to _wake up_. He lingered there clingy and drowsing ‘til Insull gently shooed him off to get dressed in his clothes from the night before. Jiyong laid out an outfit for the older man, then stared into the pre-dawn light as the train settled in its spot: he could see the bare lot waiting for them to fill it with joy.

“It’s time I was off,” Insull said behind him, and Jiyong knew this was more than the usual leave-taking. He turned to see the older man dressed and groomed impeccably, still somehow projecting height with his sheer force of will – whatever anyone said about him, or would in the days to come, you had to admire _that_.

“You’re really going,” Jiyong said.

“Yes.” Insull was laying belongings neatly into his valise. “I regret that there is no more pleasant fiction here for either of us: I must go salvage what I can of my legacy before those idiots destroy it completely; and you must find your young man and make yourselves strong again.”

“To Chicago?” asked Jiyong in dismay. “Won’t they arrest you?!”

“Very possibly, which is why I shan’t be going there yet. Where are we now?”

“Hempstead, I think.”

“Then I shall go back to New Jersey and stop at the Montclair until I decide on the best way to return without being detained.” Insull looked very annoyed and also very old. “There are many things my companies still need of me, and I won’t be able to help them if the State attempts to serve me with an arrest warrant.” He spoke as though having resigned from his directorships was just a formality and nobody at Commonwealth Edison and the others could possibly get along without him. Arrogant to the last, thought Jiyong almost affectionately – also, he was probably right.

“…Will we ever see you at the Circus again?” Jiyong asked hesitantly, thinking it was possible there’d be no more Sells-Floto to visit once Insull’s current donation ran out.

“I doubt it,” said Insull as he snapped his valise closed. From his face Jiyong guessed that if he regretted anything, he regretted that.

“But…you’ll contact me, right? To let me know everything’s okay?” Why did he feel so distraught? he wondered, when it was really all for the best – certainly when it came to Seunghyun. Perhaps from today they might finally be able to put this conflict behind them.

“When it’s safe.” Insull looked at him fondly for a long time. Feeling sorry for both the older man and himself, Jiyong couldn’t help but reach across and take his hand. Insull sighed; then his moustache turned determined: he picked up his things and walked slowly out of the lovely train car for what was probably the last time. Jiyong heard him shouting for his bodyguard before everything went quiet again, nothing but the calls of animals waking up. He stood alone on the thick, luxurious carpet, and wondered how he oughta feel.

 

* * *

 

Outside there was dew on the grass and mist in the air; it’d be a hot day. Jiyong shut the door of Insull’s car gently behind him and knew he could never bring himself to step inside it again. For several minutes he sat watching the sun come up. It was incredibly peaceful with the city sounds muted: the faraway rooftops a sea of white and red, the sky a pale violet-blue. Somewhere along the train a tropical bird was calling. He wished he could stay here longer, in this limbo between the farewell he’d just said to one part of his life and whatever would come when he stepped back into the other. But soon the Circus would begin stirring and people and beasts clamoring for setup and breakfast. He couldn’t put it off any longer.

He slipped noiselessly into his own car and through the storage space to the door of his compartment: would Seunghyun be there, or would he be nursing a hangover on the floor of the riggers’ car or wherever he’d disappeared to last night? If he _was_ here, what should Jiyong say to start the long process of making things right again? Taking a deep breath and exhaling himself into a façade of calm, he opened the door.

“ _Jiyong_.” Seunghyun was there: he was awake and looked like he’d been that way all night; his eyes were red. Jiyong peered around the dim compartment for empty bottles but couldn’t see any; so, he hadn’t been drinking. That struck him as somehow off: Seunghyun always drank when he was angry.

“Sorry if I worried you,” said Jiyong carefully, closing the door behind him so it didn’t bang; he wanted everything relaxed and quiet.

“I looked for you,” Seunghyun began. He was sitting slouched at the small table but lurched to his feet as Jiyong moved closer.

“Jeez, you look exhausted!” Jiyong exclaimed in sympathy; he truly did. “I really am sorry, Tabi,” he murmured. He reached for Seunghyun’s arm to lead him to the bunk. “I went looking for you too. Then I ended up having an argument with Timtam and I got caught in the sideshow car when-”

“Stop,” said Seunghyun in a low voice before his lover’s hand could make contact. “Don’t.”

“What is it?” Jiyong drew back his arm with a look of surprise; but underneath a current of unease began to stir.

“You weren’t with Timtam, or any of the others,” said the bigger man, still subdued. Jiyong opened his mouth. “You were with Insull – the whole night.”

“I…”

“I knew where you were,” repeated Seunghyun. “Of course I did, I saw you go in: I thought you were ‘telling him everything you knew’.” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t like it. But I thought you’d come back because I trusted you. So I waited. It wasn’t ‘til the whistle sounded that I realized…”

“That doesn’t mean anything, Tabi,” tried Jiyong, no longer trying to deny that he’d been there. “I just didn’t make it back in time.” Seunghyun rounded on him, all of a sudden at full volume.

“ _Don’t_ lie to me now! Sins of omission are bad enough without you telling an untruth right to my face. I know it, Jiyong: _you were in his bed_.” Jiyong went cold all over, disgusted at himself: what was he doing, lying to Seunghyun so deliberately?! Whether he’d seen it with his own eyes or not Seunghyun _knew_ , and there was no stopping it now.

“…I was,” he whispered. The taller man blindly put out a hand as if to steady himself against the car wall. He looked like even though he’d known it he hadn’t wanted to _believe_ it.

“For how long?” he said faintly.

“I’m not sure…weeks.” There could be no more concealment however much he wished it, it wasn’t fair. Seunghyun took a step backward: not shock, thought Jiyong heavily, but a deliberate movement away from him. His broad shoulders were stiff, his eyes huge.

“You knew this would happen,” he accused Jiyong, a catch in his voice from some deep emotion Jiyong couldn’t parse. “That’s why you insisted on staying! I _knew_ we didn’t have to, only I thought…the Circus was your dream,” he finished lamely. “I thought you knew best. And you _did_ , huh? Far more than you ever planned on telling me!” Jiyong felt a small flare of indignation at that, because did his Tabi think he was that much of a schemer?! Had he always? Oh, that hurt, almost as much as seeing the pain on Seunghyun’s face hurt. Well, let it all come out, what did it matter now?

“You wanna know why I wouldn’t leave right at the start?” asked Jiyong, growing close to tears as he spoke: guilt at getting caught but also misery at being misunderstood. Seunghyun stared at him wildly. “‘Cos when I went to see Terrell he told me Mr. Insull’s money was the only thing holding Sells-Floto together – and that if I didn’t keep him happy I’d be destroying the lives of all these people!” He flung out an arm to indicate the entire Circus. “He told me I was their only chance: and he was right.” Whatever had happened after that Jiyong knew he’d begun this with noble intentions. But it was clear Seunghyun didn’t care about the fate of Sells-Floto the way he did.

“Did he tell you to _fuck him_?” spat Seunghyun immediately.

“…No. No, that happened later,” said Jiyong with his chin up. He wanted to explain that it wasn’t really sex, not in the way he and Seunghyun had sex: for him it was less about passion than a kind of _remembrance_ and odd, childish affection – he didn’t explain it ‘cos it sounded so messed up, and probably Seunghyun wouldn’t believe him anyway. He wasn’t sure what Mr. Insull had gotten out of it; all in all it hadn’t happened very often. Jiyong had spent more time in his sponsor’s arms listening to him talk, but he doubted that would make Seunghyun feel better.

“Why did it happen at all?!” Nothing would make him feel better.

“…I don’t know.” Jiyong put his head in his hands. “But we’ve been through all this before, years ago: fucking isn’t what’s important to me; _bodies_ aren’t, and it _sure_ doesn’t mean I don’t love you or that I wanna hurt you!” Seunghyun curled his lip. “Please, Tabi,” said Jiyong urgently, “why won’t you believe me?!” Seunghyun had always seen the best in him, even in the whorehouse, and at this moment he most needed his faith.

“Because this isn’t just another body!” snarled Seunghyun; he covered his mouth with his hand, then scrubbed at it like he wanted to erase whatever expression lay beneath. When he spoke again his voice was grief-stricken but also filled with venom. “…You chose the one man in this world you knew would break me.”

“I didn’t choose,” whispered Jiyong. “It just…happened.” Seunghyun looked at him in plain disgust.

“You can’t use that, Jiyong. You’re a _grown-up_.” And there it was, the hard truth that letting himself get into this thing with Mr. Insull had allowed him to avoid.

“I love you, Seunghyun,” the younger man told him desperately. “More than anything else!!” He began to reach out, couldn’t help himself, and Seunghyun flinched back as if he was contagious. Jiyong knew then that he need have no concern for his personal safety: Seunghyun was so far beyond one of his episodes now that the man couldn’t even bear to touch him.

“Then _why_?!” exclaimed Seunghyun. “After everything you went through to have a life of your own – a life with _me_!” Jiyong stared at him, their time together a swirl of memories in his head – lying side by side his entire history with Insull. He took a shaky breath, already crying.

“…Because love isn’t _all_ there is.” He wished he could lie now. He wished Seunghyun wouldn’t take that truth the way Jiyong knew he would. “It doesn’t make you _less_ , Tabi, you gotta believe me: you’re the first in my heart, and the best. But he’s not nothing, and he needed me.”

“Who needed who?” demanded Seunghyun with a sneer that quickly broke down. Jiyong felt his cheeks begin to burn, because if he denied how comforting it was to be part of that twisted dynamic – patron and protégé, parent and child – he _would_ be lying: it felt like the most valuable gift Insull had ever given him. “That’s what I thought,” said the bigger man when he failed to speak. “He offered you that mindless life again and you took it ‘cos it’s _easy_.” Jiyong shook his head vehemently. “And in return he gets your body?”

“That’s not all he needed!” Why was Seunghyun always obsessed with that above everything else, as if there was nothing more Jiyong could offer?

“Yeah, he gets what he always wanted: to control you again.”

“…That’s _not_ it,” Jiyong told him, although that’d been a part of it for both of them.

“Then what _does_ he want?!” He couldn’t think what terrible things Seunghyun was imagining right now. Jiyong shrugged sadly, knowing that whatever he said wouldn’t help.

“My time.” Seunghyun was staring at him again, like he didn’t know whether Jiyong was a liar or a straight-up raving lunatic. Either way, he knew he had done something his beloved Tabi could not accept, not now – and perhaps not ever. Would the fact of Insull’s leaving even make a difference? “…I don’t know what you want me to do,” said Jiyong in anguish, tears streaming down his face because Seunghyun’s eyes were wet too. “I don’t know what you want me to say…! But I’m _here_ , and I’ll do _anything_ to prove I love you and that you’re the most important thing in my life.” He tried to hold his head up and look Seunghyun in the eye, to convince him through his gaze of his earnestness. It was too hard: the second he saw Seunghyun’s broken heart reflected in those beautiful eyes he crumpled.

“Oh, leave us some dignity!” he heard Seunghyun growl through his sniffles. And then: “I have to think, Jiyong. I can’t…Christ, I can’t take it in.” He paused, then said unwillingly: “Perhaps…who knows? Perhaps you’re just not made to be faithful.” Jiyong let out a sob, ‘cos that was the one thing Seunghyun had wanted from him; and now it sounded as if he was giving up completely. The older man heaved in a breath. “…So I want you out of here for a while. Go on; don’t come back.”

“For…for how long?”

“I don’t know,” said Seunghyun dully. “I guess I don’t know anything.” He sat down heavily on the bunk. Jiyong wanted to go to him, hold him and be held by him, reassure him that it was all over and beg him to understand; the idea of this man not being there for him in his time of greatest distress was unimaginable. Almost as unfathomable was the idea of not being able to comfort Seunghyun, but God knew what he would do if Jiyong tried to touch him now. With a series of watery, inelegant breaths Jiyong grabbed a few of his things – he couldn’t tell what, he could barely see through the blur of tears – and ran out of the compartment. When he’d slammed the outer door behind him he fell back against the cold iron of the train, laid his cheek on its hard, unforgiving surface, and cried.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 48A giant superhuman lumberjack/outdoorsman and American folklore figure.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 49Walter Fitzmaurice was a real journalist writing for papers including the _Chicago Tribune_ at this time. He later went on to be White House correspondent for Newsweek and probably wasn’t as much of an asshole as I’m portraying him; but who knows![return to text]  
> 
> 
> 50Insull really did know Al Capone: he met him to discuss hiring some of Capone’s men as security but in the end decided it was too expensive and found his own bodyguards instead. Wasik (2007) says: “His name became as infamous as his contemporary Al Capone” (3); but ‘cos leaders of industry are way less exciting than gangsters Capone’s who we remember. The list of legendary figures Insull was connected with really surprised me given that these days no-one knows who he is: Edison, Tesla, P.T. Barnum, Capone, Winston Churchill and at least three U.S. presidents… Pretty cool :)[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 51This is all true: although he survived the Crash, at this point in mid-1932 Insull was forced to resign from his various positions as his corporations tottered: director of 85 companies, chairman of 65 and president of 11 (damn! No wonder he had nervous breakdowns). Cook County had been investigating him since 1931 for ‘dubious accounting methods’. He’d been getting personal loans to buy stock in his own companies to try and stop them folding (which event would have damaged (and eventually did) many ordinary people who also owned shares) and had taken on a staggering amount of personal debt, but in the end couldn’t shore them all up. His holding companies (a concept he invented, btw) went bankrupt and he was forced to resign after his brother Martin was caught embezzling (which broke Insull’s heart Godfather-style).[return to text]  
> 
> 
> This chapter's title song is _'That's The Blues Old Man'_ performed by Duke Ellington (1940).
> 
> Well, I guess you all knew something like this was coming! What (probably) ill-advised thing will the boys do next...?


	21. After You've Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong, for almost the first time in his life, finds himself at a loss for what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a gloomy chapter considering yesterday was one of the happiest days of the year, but whatever - baby Ji is a civilian again, and big congrats to him! And to Seunghyun for posting the most blatant GTOP content for us ;)  
> (Check my Tumblr at @babyrubysoho or Instagram at @babyrubysoho_art to see my celebration fanart XD)

Jiyong didn’t know where to go: the train had pulled in but it was still so early unloading hadn’t begun. The cookhouse wasn’t up, nothing was – there was only the engine and the blank expanse of the lot waiting to be filled with noise and color. Jiyong wouldn’t go back to Mr. Insull’s car – he _couldn’t_. He supposed the best idea was to go knock up the sideshow car and bunk down there. But Timtam would cuss him out for waking them, and then he’d start asking questions. And all of them would know what Jiyong had done. The other option was to ask Ezra for a share of his floor, and that’d be even worse: the riggers were all Seunghyun’s friends. Jiyong didn’t normally give a fig what people thought of him but he couldn’t take any more anger; not now. What he _should_ do was wake up Terrell and tell him what’d happened. Did he already know the Circus was losing its backing? Even if he did it was gunna come as an unwelcome surprise to learn that Insull was gone for good and that Seunghyun – a key part of the show – was furious enough with the lot of them that in the next few crucial hours he might do _anything_.

In the end Jiyong did none of these things. After he’d dried his tears he went to the lead-stock car and bathed his face in a bucket of water. He spent a few minutes hugging one of the llamas – at least _they_ wouldn’t judge him, and they were soft and warm as a blanket. He scribbled a note on the back of a flier to Terrell – _Emergency, back soon. Jiyong_ – and wiggled it under his door. Then he stepped back off the train and wearily began to retrace its path along the tracks. He left the lot and in a while reached Hempstead Station. There were very few passenger trains to his destination and he’d missed the first, but after a two-hour wait he at last boarded the service to Montclair. He couldn’t think why he was taking this step, only that he didn’t know what else to do. He was barely thinking at all.

It was afternoon when he arrived in the town. Even if he turned around right now he’d miss the matinée. Vaguely he wondered what Fred and Terrell would do when they found out he’d vanished; then again, maybe it didn’t matter so much. Would Seunghyun even notice? Jiyong guessed his lover wouldn’t be looking for him anytime soon; no-one would miss him ‘til Ezra rigged his silks. He’d only been into Montclair once before – it was new on their route – and soon he was lost; everyone seemed busy and in no mood to help a pale, red-eyed Korean, but eventually he found a cop who looked at him only slightly suspiciously and directed him to the Hotel Montclair.

The hotel was a tall white building amid a wide expanse of greenery: it was sure no Palmer House, but when Jiyong approached the front desk he found they were as snobbish as the hotels in a great metropolis. The clerk looked like he had half a mind to tell Jiyong to go round the service entrance. Jiyong hadn’t been sure if Mr. Insull would be using an alias – how far afield might they be trying to find him? But the name obviously rang a bell with the staff; the clerk called over his slick-haired manager and they began to whisper together, interspersed with dubious glances at Jiyong, who beneath his determined veneer was growing more and more wretched.

“Mr. Insull will be very annoyed if I don’t keep this appointment,” said Jiyong coldly; if he couldn’t see him he didn’t know _what_ he’d do – have a breakdown in the lobby, most probably. The two men exchanged looks; clearly they knew who Insull was. And apparently the news stories about his unfortunate circumstances hadn’t yet reached New Jersey, or at least hadn’t stopped ‘em being scared of him: the manager himself came round and accompanied Jiyong upstairs in the elevator.

“We’ll see what the gentleman has to say,” said the man. His stride was much longer than Jiyong’s. “He did ask not to be disturbed, you know.”

“He’ll see me,” Jiyong replied as confidently as he could. They didn’t travel up too far, not to the penthouse; the manager marched him up to one of a series of doors on the third floor and knocked. Jiyong heard the familiar voice asking who it was. Insull didn’t sound concerned, merely irritated. “A young man says he has an appointment with you, Sir,” called the manager, somewhat apologetic. Jiyong glared at him. There were several moments of silence in which the guy glowered back at him. Then the door opened.

“Yes, yes,” said Insull imperially. “You may go now.” The manager bowed his head, shot them a fascinated look, and left them alone. Belatedly Jiyong thought it’d really add fuel to Fitzmaurice’s fire if the manager decided to blab about this liaison, but Insull didn’t seem to care. Jiyong stepped inside; as soon as the door shut behind him his lip began to quiver in an embarrassingly childish way. Out of habit his hand reached to grope for the older man’s sleeve. Insull seemed pretty bewildered to see him here at all, but after one good look at the state of him opened both arms and carefully embraced him. Jiyong leaned his chin on that cool, unemotional shoulder and for the second time that day began to cry.

He could sense Insull waiting for him to collect himself. Once he did he was led to a wing chair – comfy but not the height of luxury, noted Jiyong when he could take in the details of the suite – and Insull took a seat opposite him.

“What happened?” the older man asked in a patient tone. In a broken confusion of words punctuated by sniffs Jiyong told him. “I see,” said Insull. “And after all your good intentions to be kind and mend things between the two of you.” He sighed. “The timing could not have been more unfortunate.”

“…He doesn’t think _any_ of my intentions were ‘kind’.”

“I dare say he cannot see things the way you do.” Insull gave him a look that could be interpreted as either sympathy or a mild form of ‘I told you so’. “From what you tell me, I don’t believe he often tries.”

“None of that matters now!” cried Jiyong, who didn’t wanna hear any reasonable talk at this moment, especially to the detriment of Seunghyun. “I’ve ruined _everything_.” All that got him was a sigh of forbearance.

“Naturally the young man is hurt; people of his nature always are.”

“You mean _good_ people.” Jiyong knew neither he nor this man could exactly claim to be part of that category. Insull passed him a handkerchief.

“So, he asked that you leave your shabby little compartment.” He gazed steadily at Jiyong. “And you followed me here. Why is that?”

“I just…didn’t know what else to do,” admitted Jiyong. “You’re the only person other than Seunghyun who ever gave me good advice.” Ahh, the waterworks were starting again! Without a word Insull stretched out a hand and allowed Jiyong to clutch at his sleeve. Jiyong fought to get himself together again, but how could he, when the very sound of Seunghyun’s name…?

“He’ll come back to you,” he heard Insull say at last, and the hand took his forearm to draw him closer. “In the end I doubt he has it in him to break with you completely.”

“How do _you_ know?” said Jiyong indistinctly – Insull wasn’t much given to comforting platitudes but that had to be one of them. The old man sighed.

“Because _I_ would not want to.”

“Oh…goddammit, Sir…” Jiyong blew his nose loudly. “Don’t you have any advice for me? I didn’t wanna hurt _anyone_ , not him, not you…! But I did, and now I gotta _fix it_.” Insull leaned forward and cupped Jiyong’s face with his free hand.

“All you can do is wait,” he stated in his dry fashion. There was a pause, and when he next spoke it was more kindly. “Would it help if I stayed close by until things are resolved? In case you need me.” He looked deeply troubled but also strangely hopeful, and with a flash of inspiration Jiyong finally understood that what his sponsor – ex-sponsor – needed most of all was to _be_ needed.

Perhaps _that_ was why they’d fallen back into this connection at this particular time, thought Jiyong. At last all the pieces fit together, and if anyone cared to ask him he’d finally be able to explain why this had happened: that the weight of his adult life had become so overwhelming he’d wanted someone to take it from him and transport him back to a simpler existence; Insull’s corporations, which had taken a lifetime to build and a fierce fight to keep above water, said _they_ no longer wanted his care. Then where better to bestow it than on Jiyong? The world since the Depression began had changed so much for both of them; no wonder it’d thrown them back together in this perfect and twisted dynamic! The difference was that Insull’s disaster came from his being too certain he could control everything and take every burden upon himself – while Jiyong’s came from being too weak to shoulder any alone. And now here they were. Had Insull been using him simply to make himself feel better? Perhaps – but if so Jiyong had been using him, too.

“No, Sir, it wouldn’t help.” If the man hung around here someone would find him: a lawman, some press scumbag like Fitzmaurice. Jiyong couldn’t allow that – it was time he did the right thing. Even so, it hurt, to say goodbye to the closest thing to a father he had left…

“What would make you happy?” asked Insull, who was watching him carefully, his thumb brushing Jiyong’s cheek. “My boy.” Jiyong leaned into his hand.

“For you to go.” He _had_ to: for his own sake, and Jiyong’s, and most of all for Seunghyun’s. Jiyong now knew there could be no reconciliation with his beloved ‘til Insull was far, far away. The older man frowned at him but made no comment. “Take your wife and go back to Europe before they catch up with you. Never mind the damn Circus, it can take its chances.” He swallowed. “…I don’t wanna see you on trial, Sir.”

“It’s what I’d planned for days now,” Insull agreed. “There’s no telling when they might issue an arrest warrant and I must shield my family from the turmoil as far as possible.”[52] Jiyong nodded: he understood that urge very well. Insull sighed again. “…I should like to take you with me; you belong in Paris.” Jiyong felt his expression change to a mixture of amazement and horror; Insull was observing him closely. “But I’m a poor man now,” his former owner declared in a bland tone – almost certainly an exaggeration, though comparatively speaking Jiyong supposed it was true. “And likely to be hounded out of every place I try to settle – Roosevelt will see to that when he takes office. I couldn’t possibly keep you in the style you deserve.” Jiyong chuckled shakily.

“I don’t care about that stuff anymore,” he murmured. Insull’s eyebrow went up. “Maybe I never really did.” He paused, thought of Seunghyun’s devotion and how he’d wasted it. “…All I needed was to be loved.”

“Well,” said Insull, his habitually cool voice turning fond. “You’ll have that wherever you go.” Jiyong immediately felt the tears spring to his eyes, and gulped to draw them back down. He covered Insull’s fingers with his own.

“Will…will you write to me?”

“I said I would. If you’d like it.” The older man’s voice lowered further, now turning gruff as Jiyong’s lips touched his palm. “I daresay my nephew can always find you if you wish him to.” Jiyong nodded blindly, then bit his tongue when Insull took his hand and kissed it, moustache tickling his knuckles. “Goodbye, then,” said Insull quietly. “Take care of yourself. If something happens…between you and that boy, or anything else…you let me know.” Jiyong couldn’t reply, just gasped wetly. Insull patted his hand, then stiffly stood up, retrieved his hat and cane, and left the hotel room. He didn’t say where he was going but the message was clear: Jiyong was on his own.

Jiyong didn’t react ‘til the door had closed behind him. Then he sank his head in his arms and wept for the end of his childhood. It had come at last – and perhaps too late.[53]

 

* * *

 

It was night when he returned to the Circus. He was lucky they were doing a two-day run, if the train had moved on he’d have little idea of where they’d gone – after a few months the towns and even States tended to blend together. He hitched a ride back to the lot with a group of drunk men in an ancient truck who were likely headed for the cooch show; he was so tired he didn’t think he could walk it. The men gave him a couple of weird glances but that was probably ‘cos he looked like shit. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible he made his way up the slope to the train. The evening performance was over, Seunghyun’s act with the Cannonball finished; and in the chaos around the Big Top and Midway nobody noticed him. Jiyong waited outside his own car, listening, but the music and happy shouts of rubes leaving the lot were too loud so he plucked up the courage to climb the steps and go in. The storage area was as dark and forbidding as ever; he inched his way through it, not encouraged by the obstacles, and here he was: home. He’d never been more afraid of it.

Jiyong knocked on the compartment door and got no answer. He wasn’t surprised, only hurt: Seunghyun had told him not to come around, of _course_ he wouldn’t answer, if he was even back from the Big Top. For a little while he stood there miserably, trying to decide if he should walk in and make his lover talk this out; technically it was Jiyong’s room, after all. Then he recalled the look of utter devastation on Seunghyun’s face and thought better of it, ‘cos what if it _did_ bring on an episode now, a worse one than the time after Gough and the cooch show? Jiyong had just barely been able to handle it back then – and he was damn sure Seunghyun couldn’t be consoled with sex anymore, not when this morning he’d been appalled at the idea of the smaller man even touching him. He wasn’t sure if he could be comforted at all.

In the end Jiyong left the car without taking any action; he hadn’t even called through the door. That made him feel like a coward, and when he saw the faces of the Cirkies around him as he wandered disconsolately toward the back yard it looked like they were thinking the same thing. How many of them knew? he wondered; their fight that morning had been loud enough to wake the entire train, and word would’ve got around by now that Insull had left. Some of them were staring at him as if fascinated, while others turned their faces away. Jiyong sank down on a straw bale outside the cookhouse and rested his forehead in his palm. He knew he had to go see Terrell and apologize – and if necessary beg for his job back. God, he hoped Seunghyun had had the sense to perform and hadn’t thrown a fit! The last thing Jiyong wanted was for _his_ stupidity to cost Seunghyun his place.

“Hey.” Jiyong sniffed and looked up, and there was Flora in a poppy patterned dress. The bearded woman gave him a strange, almost nervous glance, but took a seat beside him after spreading her handkerchief atop the straw. “How’re you doing?” she asked, her voice calm as always; not for the first time Jiyong wished he could be more like her. “We…thought you’d left. When we heard you didn’t show up to the matinée…”

“I just…” Jiyong stared down at his hands. “I had to do something. But now I’m back. I don’t s’pose you know how the gaffer took it?” he asked, bracing himself.

“Somehow,” said Flora, “I gather he wasn’t surprised.” Jiyong nodded: that probably meant Terrell _did_ know about Mr. Insull’s losses; did he think Jiyong had left to follow him? As far as the younger man was aware Terrell still thought he hated Insull’s attentions. Or…maybe he _did_ know the two of them had been carrying on together. Christ, who else did?!

“Wanna talk about it?” asked Flora, giving him a shrewd look; but the hand that touched his knee was sympathetic.

“No,” said Jiyong. If he did he’d start crying again. He bit his lip hard enough to focus his thoughts. “Have…d’you know if Seunghyun’s okay?” he asked hesitantly; surely if anything spectacularly bad had happened even the sideshow would’ve caught wind of it. Flora’s face changed.

“Jiyong…” Through the warm twilight he saw her twine her beard around her fingers anxiously. “I thought you knew,” she said. “I thought you’d have been to see…” Jiyong’s chest tightened immediately at her tone, an echo of that morning’s panic stabbing at him.

“Know what?” he demanded. Her wide eyes met his.

“Seunghyun left this afternoon: had a fight with the gaffer and walked out. He’s _gone_.”

 

Jiyong sprinted back to the train so fast it made his head spin. He didn’t pause this time but burst right into the compartment: empty. Empty of Seunghyun, at least. Jiyong stood in the doorway, his skin prickling with disbelief. Where would Seunghyun _go_? He had no other job and they were far from any home but this one. On a more fundamental level, one that left his heart quaking in his ribcage, Jiyong couldn’t comprehend the idea of Seunghyun leaving at all. _Yes_ , Jiyong had done something that had wrecked his beloved and he’d pay for it, he’d pay however he had to – but not _this_. He took a shaking step into the room, turning up the lamp as he went just to be sure he wasn’t lurking somewhere; a dumb notion, but…hadn’t Seunghyun sworn he’d never leave him?! No matter how stupid Jiyong had been in the past they’d always found a way through it: not mobsters, not even murder had been enough to put him off. No, Jiyong wouldn’t believe it.

He began a systematic search of the compartment, starting under the bunk. Seunghyun’s big suitcase was still there but his small valise wasn’t, and nor was the sturdy duffle bag he’d used in the Green Mill heist all those years ago – back when he’d have done _anything_ for Jiyong, regardless of how many men he was sharing him with. Christ, Jiyong had had it good back then! He should’ve been more appreciative, should’ve… Opening the cupboard he found half the older man’s clothes missing. His toothbrush, razor and comb were gone too. That made Jiyong’s stomach queasy: if Seunghyun thought he’d need to shave he was planning to be away longer than a couple of days. When he moved to the shelves the first thing Jiyong saw was the radio, the one gift from Mr. Insull Seunghyun had been able to tolerate: its dial was smashed into its wooden body as if Seunghyun had taken a swing at it.

“Jesus, Tabi…” Jiyong stared at it, frightened by the violence and at the same time brimming over with compassion for the pain Seunghyun must’ve felt to make him do such a thing. When he could tear his eyes away from the sight Jiyong continued: a few other things were missing, a bundle of letters and Tabi’s favorite pen, some books. The science journals were still lying around. Any money and jewels Seunghyun had would be on his person anyway, just as Jiyong’s were on his. Jiyong yanked open the tiny desk drawer all the way and froze: right at the back like they’d been deliberately pushed there were two photographs – one that Jiyong’s press photographer had taken, the other the small blonde portrait from when they’d first met. The one Seunghyun _always_ had with him. Jiyong touched them but was afraid to disturb them because he didn’t know what it meant: either Seunghyun had left one of his most prized possessions here ‘cos he intended on coming back for it, or…or he never wanted to see Jiyong’s face again.

Jiyong blinked back two scalding tears and assured himself it was the former: even Mr. Insull had said Seunghyun would never leave him, and he was a great reader of people. Tabi had probably gone someplace to cool off, to make sure he didn’t do something violent or stupid in the initial throes of the misery Jiyong’s behavior had caused. He told himself sharply that this was the case; nevertheless, he couldn’t stay in the compartment another minute: it looked half what it once was, and made him _feel_ like half a person standing here alone in it. So he took himself off to Terrell’s private car to try and find out more.

“Yes, I was the last one to see him,” said the manager, tying his bed-jacket and squinting at Jiyong. “And _yes_ , I talked to him – well, he shouted at me.” To Jiyong’s surprise the large man gestured him to a stool, perhaps so he could continue haranguing him even after Jiyong grew exhausted.

“He didn’t mean to, Boss,” the younger man told him urgently. “He’s just very…upset.”

“So I gathered.” Terrell lit a cigar and dragged a long-suffering hand down his face. “He finally clocked what you’ve been up to, eh?”

“ _Finally_?” echoed Jiyong.

“Come on, Jiyong,” said the bigger man tersely. “You think I didn’t know about your clandestine trips to Sam Insull’s car? It’s right next to mine, you little idiot.” That figured, thought Jiyong with a wince: of course he’d found out and of course he hadn’t stopped him – Terrell had been on at him to show the ‘proper’ gratitude to their sponsor since the beginning.

“…You knew it’d turn out like this, didn’t you,” he said in a dull voice.

“I guessed it might.” Terrell blew a thoughtful smoke ring. “I didn’t hope it; but yes.”

“Didja know it was all for nothing?!” demanded Jiyong unsteadily, the tears threatening to rise again. “Mr. Insull’s _ruined_ – or he soon will be.” For a minute the manager looked haggard; why not, after all? The Circus was his dearest responsibility. Then to Jiyong’s amazement his expression softened in a way the smaller man had never seen before.

“No-one will lay that at your door, Jiyong,” he said. “You did your best, and I thank you for it.” He sighed. “It’s not as if we went into this blind: the Corporation knew Insull’s affairs were on shaky ground when it accepted his patronage. But I never knew a man fight more personally for impersonal corporate success than he did – it was a fifty-fifty chance he’d weather it, and in times like these that’s a decent gamble.” Jiyong opened his mouth but Terrell hushed him. “We didn’t lose anything by it,” he explained, “and we gained several months of solvency. The Corporation’s now looking at what the options are when his donation runs out; we’ll see what happens. Either way, _you_ carried us through up to now: your job’s as safe as anyone’s.” Jiyong wanted to feel relief at that, but he couldn’t – all his thoughts were with Seunghyun.

“That’s not the point!” he exclaimed, though it was some comfort to know he hadn’t been fired for skipping two shows with no explanation. Terrell raised his eyebrows. “Where did Seunghyun go?!”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Well…what’d he _say_?” The manager made a sour face around his cigar.

“He screamed at me for a while – you were certainly right about his temper, not that I exactly blame him. Told me I’d as good as sold you to Insull, that letting him anywhere near Sells-Floto had ruined the pair of you; and that you vanishing was the last straw.”

“Oh, my God…” Jiyong sagged on his stool. Terrell poured him a glass of water with one hand and pushed it towards him. He took it, he hadn’t had anything to eat or drink for a whole day and he could feel his body as well as his soul wavering.

“He’ll come back,” said Terrell sagely. “So don’t get any ideas in your head about running off – seems you have no idea where he’d go, anyway.” He was right: Peru? Florida? Chicago? Someplace else where he could hide out? Jiyong had never dreamed this would happen and so he’d never considered what his lover might do.

“What makes you think so?” he asked, feeling faint; he thought of the photographs in the drawer, far less confident about their meaning than he had been. Terrell clicked his tongue at him.

“He loves you, of course. Anyone can see it, he’s a complete sap when it comes to you. So, he’s badly hurt – I reckon there’ll be nothing that can soothe it but _you_.” Jiyong squeezed his eyes closed and put a hand over his mouth. “Be patient,” ordered Terrell. “No hysterics! His little lady assistant can fill in ‘til he comes back, and you’ll go on as normal. Nothing like work for taking your mind off things.”

“D’you really think he’ll come back for me?” whispered Jiyong through his fingers. Terrell gave him an expansive smile.

“You wait and see.”

 

* * *

 

Once Jiyong had left the manager’s car he didn’t know where to go: he was exhausted but both Insull’s car and his own compartment were emotionally out of bounds, at least for the present. He walked through the back yard, uncertain; it was late enough now that most people were heading to bed. Maybe he oughta sleep in with the bulls like they’d used to, back when he and Seunghyun had–

“There you are!” cried Ezra from along near the engine, and came bounding up to him. Jiyong tensed, readying himself to be hit or at least yelled at: Seunghyun and the rigger had become pretty close this season and Jiyong was unsure where his loyalties lay. Ezra grabbed him by the shoulders, then tugged him close and wrapped him in a bear hug. “Sorry!” said the young man a second later, breathless as he let his artist go. “I was just so worried! When you didn’t show up for prep, and then I heard Seunghyun left… Thank God you’re back, anyway.”

“Thanks.” Jiyong tried to smile at him: he oughta be grateful for every bit of kindness he was given now. Doubtless some of it was self-interest, Ezra would really think himself cursed if he lost _another_ aerialist after Millie. Still, it was sweet of him. “…I don’t s’pose you’ve got a spare bunk?” he inquired. He’d prefer not to be alone tonight, he didn’t wanna have to _think_. Ezra looked awkward.

“I’d be fine with it,” he began. “Only…some of the other riggers have been talking, and they reckon-”

“It’s okay!” Jiyong cut him off before he could say it: that Seunghyun’s old bunkmates blamed Jiyong for his leaving. And they were right. He patted the younger man on the shoulder. “See you before the matinée tomorrow, huh?”

“Sure.” Dammit, now even Ezra felt guilty, when all of that oughta belong to Jiyong. He pushed his rigger gently towards the train. Taking the hint Ezra left, glancing back over his shoulder a couple of times. If he really didn’t wanna be alone, thought Jiyong, he had only one option left.

His hand was already shaking as he opened the car door and peeked inside. There was the familiar lineup of bunks: Ed, the Wolf Boy, Sky High, the Skeleton, Timtam, and all the others stretching off down the train. Some of the sideshow men were in bed already, others playing cards or drinking and doing hobbywork. They looked as contented as any Cirkie could be in these uncertain times, a true community – and the one whose collective good opinion Jiyong was most scared of losing. If there was any group of people he could really call his own, it was this; and he was about to put himself up for judgment. A silence fell as he stepped inside; they were all staring at him, even the new boys he didn’t really know.

“I…” Jiyong managed. There was some more silence.

“Guys,” said Timtam after clambering down to get a good look at his face in the lamplight. “Take a hike for a bit.” He jerked his thumb at the door, and in a miracle of compliance the other sideshow men climbed outta bed and filed out past Jiyong: no grumbling, few sighs; Ed even patted his shoulder. Jiyong couldn’t understand this restraint, and looked to Timtam to explain. “Get up there,” ordered the smaller man, pointing to Sky High’s spacious bunk. Jiyong ascended and sat hunched over with his head touching Timtam’s bedsprings. “So,” said Timtam severely, “ya need a place to crash?”

“Can I?” asked Jiyong, looking humble; of course Timtam was pissed at him – the dwarf had been his most outspoken critic about the cooch show, and this must seem a hundred times worse. Timtam frowned at him.

“Course you can, ya daft fairy. Kinker or no, you came from here – and if ya feel like fallin’ this low we’ll take you back.”

“You…you know what happened?” Jiyong muttered, in case by some freak chance the scandal hadn’t reached the sideshow car.

“Idiot.” Timtam shut the door. “We knew what was happenin’ long before your man did! Prob’ly almost as soon as _you_. Ya weren’t exactly subtle: saw you joggin’ past the window to that fancy rear carriage almost every afternoon our ol’ sponsor was here, and didn’t he look pleased about that!”

“…You’re not gunna chew me out for being ‘unfaithful’?” said Jiyong in a wobbly voice; he was so surprised it was running over into suspicion, the sideshow acts were a weirdly moral lot when it came to fidelity. “You were such an asshole about the cooch show!” Timtam snorted at him, but even more oddly trundled over to hop up beside him on the bunk.

“Ya did that for your own benefit – ‘specially that _vanity_ of yours,” explained the dwarf. “Course we all felt bad for your man back then, you were real selfish.”

“Shut up, Timtam,” Jiyong told him, feeling small. His friend set a hand on his shoulder, and the younger man was so grateful for even that tiny gesture he felt himself tear up.

“Yeah, we all knew you were carryin’ on with the Money Man, and we didn’t tell Seunghyun. But that’s just it, he _is_ the money – or at least he was ‘til the Depression sucked him down. We knew ya were doin’ your best for all of us: that old fossil would never’ve given us a dime if it wasn’t for your charms.”

“…I was,” said Jiyong, sniffing, ‘cos it was at least half true: he _had_ started this whole thing with good intentions. He hadn’t even wanted to start it! “I know him from way back, and he always liked me. But now it’s over.”

“That ain’t your fault, Princess,” Timtam told him gruffly, as kindly as he’d ever spoken to Jiyong. “These times’ll take down anyone who doesn’t carry his fortune round his neck. You kept us going as long as ya could.”

“Tell that to Seunghyun,” managed the taller man, and burst into tears. Timtam just sighed and sat there patting his back.

“Here,” the dwarf said when Jiyong’s sobs had dried up and he was snuffling pathetically into the handkerchief given him by Mr. Insull – he’d cried so much in the last twenty-four hours he was surprised he had any tears left. He felt pathetic, weeping like a damsel in distress without knowing what action to take; he’d _always_ known before, and now he was just…lost. Timtam reached up to his own bunk and ferreted around under the covers before pushing a bundle of paper into Jiyong’s hand. It was covered in neat lines of extremely nice handwriting. “Don’t fuckin’ cry on it,” Timtam warned him. “Took me ages to write out pretty and I gotta send it off tomorrow. Just…distract yourself, you’re makin’ yourself worse.” He crawled off Sky High’s bed and swung up to his own, where Jiyong heard him lie down. A second later came the sound of a cork popping.

Jiyong stared blindly at the pages and gradually realized it was a story. At the top a neatly printed title read: ‘ _The Picture Princess: An Oriental Adventure_ ’. He wasn’t much of a great reader but maybe he oughta take his friend’s advice: he couldn’t bear to think about his own lonely bed right now, or where his beloved might be sleeping tonight, or…

“…Say, did _you_ write this?!” he called to the bunk above, after browsing a couple of paragraphs.

“Yeah. Shut up and read it.”

“I didn’t even know you could _spell_ ,” said Jiyong, impressed despite himself. Timtam lowered his middle finger into Jiyong’s eye-line. Jiyong took the hint and read the story. After a page he felt marginally better: the action was fun, a typical schlocky adventure-fantasy tale set in an obscure part of the Far East, with barbarians and monsters and romance that was just this side of smut; it was actually pretty good. After three pages Jiyong stopped and kicked the bunk above him.

“Hey, you asshole, this is about _me_!” The story’s obligatory hot bit of skirt, the one the dauntless American hero was probably gunna ‘tame’ on page five, was a foreign princess who’d turned pirate and attacked the hero with her band of Asian warriors and her heaving bosom; she was dangerously seductive, flew through the air on a rope with a knife between her teeth, and was covered in tattoos.

“You’re a vain little prick,” replied Timtam, who wasn’t trying to hide his laughter. “Yeah, it kinda is; but before that head of yours gets swollen lemme tell ya that I borrow from all the Cirkies.”

“Hmph!” As if to make up for this liberty Jiyong saw a half-full bottle of akvavit dangling over the edge of the bunk. He grabbed it, had a moment’s agony at the idea that this was the closest he could now get to Seunghyun, and took a long, burning swig. Then he continued reading, drinking at every new paragraph. “…Y’know what?” he said grudgingly when he was done – he was a slow reader and a couple of the words he didn’t know. “You’re actually okay.”

“No shit,” said Timtam from above him. “Whaddya think I do all off-season?” He cackled. “Thought I was a lazy son of a bitch, didn’t ya! Well _this_ is what I work at.”

“You mean you get _paid_ for this stuff?”

“Sure. Nothin’ highbrow, just the pulp magazines: _Blue Book_ , _Weird Tales_ , this new one _Oriental Stories_. People wanna escape, y’know?” Jiyong nodded: oh, how he did! “They get that by readin’,” continued Timtam, “and I get it by writin’.” Jiyong considered the tall, handsome hero of the story and understood completely: it gave his small friend pleasure to put himself in the shoes of someone whose life was so much larger than his own – just as Jiyong had taken solace in pretending to be the pampered boy he no longer was.

“…I think that’s amazing,” he said wistfully, handing the manuscript back.

“One day,” announced Timtam, “I shall write a novel – maybe when this outfit finally goes tits-up. And it’s gonna be _hot_. I’ll clean up with it, you’ll see.” Jiyong hoped he would: he wished Timtam a career in which he could spend all day imagining grand adventures and screwing his cooch-show honey and would never have to be laughed at for doing costumed dwarf boxing again. He squeezed his eyes shut and said a prayer that everyone would get exactly what they wished for – including himself. “It helps to have a hobby,” Timtam told him sagely. “If ya don’t have somethin’ to take you out of yourself, how can ya stand this goddamn miserable world?”

“I know.” Jiyong had never imagined that he’d hear such sage words from Timtam, or that the older man could be so oddly kind. If only he’d known before that he might find some understanding here!

“Personally, I write.” Timtam paused. “In your case I recommend workin’ and fuckin’: it’s what you do best. At least until ya get your man back.”

“Oh, Timtam…”

“Whoa, jeez, didn’t mean to start ya off again!” said the dwarf hurriedly. “No, you just lie down and take a nap. See if ya can’t dream somethin’ better than your own sorry state.” Jiyong sniffed, but reclined on Sky High’s bunk as instructed. He closed his eyes, saw Seunghyun smiling at him from the back of the bread van. Could they ever go back to that? For the second time in an hour he prayed. As he was dropping into an exhausted sleep he dimly heard Timtam say: “Oi, give the bottle back first!” Then, thankfully, he heard nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong waited, and waited, and heard from no-one: not Fitzmaurice, not Mr. Insull, and most conspicuously not Seunghyun.

“Give him some time,” advised Flora as she rubbed Jiyong’s temples. It had been three days since the crisis and they’d soon be leaving Long Island, but not a word from Seunghyun. “He seems like a sensitive soul.” Jiyong knew it, and always had; but in the past he’d never allowed his Tabi to express it, hadn’t granted him the leisure to wallow in his emotions. He supposed that was wrong of him, to let his more pragmatic personality steamroller Seunghyun’s struggle between adoration and resentment. It’d worked, though, hadn’t it? Perhaps that was why it was so terribly hard now to be patient: he couldn’t feel that it would end well.

In a few more days he ventured back to his own compartment and found himself just about able to bear it. He cleaned the place up, ready for his beloved’s return, but didn’t tidy away any of Seunghyun’s things. It gave him a pang to see them around, yet it made the space feel more normal. Every night he slept with one of Seunghyun’s shirts tangled in his arms, and in the mornings tried to get on with day-to-day Circus life: setup, laundry, performance, tear-down, roll-out. With his protective lover gone he suddenly found himself receiving attention and advances from some unexpected quarters, and had to spend more time than he liked rebuffing them – he was careful to stay well away from Gough, ‘cos he felt unbalanced enough right now to do something _stupid_ in his misery and he didn’t wanna put himself in danger’s path. On his silks he could for a time blank out his unhappiness, but other than that it seemed a humdrum existence without Seunghyun. Still, he waited and hoped. It was only when the lingering scent of the older man began to leave the shirt fabric that Jiyong started to panic again: how much longer would he be gone?

In the meantime he tried to stay abreast of what was happening outside the walls of the Big Top. Jiyong had written to Dami the first chance he got, begging for any news. He wished now that he’d worked harder so he could afford to get her a telephone line: the days waiting for the mail to arrive were endless. He didn’t have much hope she’d have heard anything about Seunghyun’s whereabouts, though he instructed her to forward any of Soomin or Daesung’s letters that might mention him. It was humiliating to reveal to his sister that Seunghyun had left him; but humiliation was better than potentially missing out on a clue. What Dami _could_ do was send him the _Chicago Tribune_. She didn’t need to read it, he told her, hoping she’d take the hint. He _had_ to have it, to find out what was happening with Mr. Insull – and whether, God forbid, Fitzmaurice’s editor had felt the need to print Jiyong’s own scandalous connection with the embattled tycoon.

So far there’d been no salacious stories about the House or Korean prostitutes: Mr. Insull had been right, the papers were doing a good enough job lambasting him with the material they already had, so perhaps they were saving it up. Or perhaps, thought Jiyong hopefully, the man might still have _some_ friends in high places who were helping him squash Fitzmaurice’s story; after all, so many of Chicago’s powerful men had been customers at the House. He was very glad now that he’d warned him about the journalist, late though that warning had been. It was on June 15 – over a week since Jiyong had parted from his patron in the hotel room – that he read the first bit of good news: Mr. Insull and his wife had packed up and left the U.S. via Canada. The _Tribune_ speculated that they were heading for France on a steamer and wondered what international law agencies would be mobilized to try and get him back when he was formally indicted. True, running probably made him look guilty to the average Chicagoan; but at least he was _safe_. Jiyong almost cried with relief – it was one worry off his mind. He continued to receive the paper and went back to his growing fears about Seunghyun.

“You’re gonna do somethin’ nuts, aren’t ya,” Timtam accused him from where he was taking up too much space on the blanket. They were sitting beside a bridge in a pleasant bit of woodland looking down at the placid Ten Mile River; it was June 18 and they’d come as far as Atteboro, Massachusetts. Seunghyun had been gone almost two weeks and no-one, _no-one_ had heard a word from him.

“No.” Jiyong stared fixedly at the water; the New England early summer was fresh and pleasant and he oughta be having a nice time: he and Timtam and Ed had come out here with their dukey bags full of lunch to get away from the usual sad crowd of men clamoring for work at the lot. The wood was peaceful and he was fed and watered and among friends, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“You are,” croaked Ed. “Saw it yesterday: your eyes have gone all shiny.” Jiyong’s lips thinned, ‘cos they were quite right: he was seriously considering abandoning the Circus. It was a stupid idea; he didn’t know where Seunghyun had gone and had almost no money now the house sale had been finalized. Terrell had warned him not to go running off again, and if he did it was doubtful if he’d be allowed back. He oughta sit tight and play the waiting game, trust in his own charms to draw Seunghyun to him. But how could he? He felt himself growing more lackluster every day, and cried in his sleep every night. So yesterday he’d decided – if he heard nothing from Seunghyun before they left the State he would go looking and _make_ him come back.

“I can’t sit on my ass and do nothing,” he said, hands clenching into fists between his knees. “I won’t let him leave me.” The two older men looked at each other.

“Ego,” pronounced Timtam, and Ed nodded. Jiyong scowled at the river.

“No. Ego is waiting around not lifting a finger like I’m enough to lure him back by myself!”

“Ain’t you?” said Ed.

“Apparently not,” Jiyong muttered unhappily. He was done taking advice: it was time to take action.

 

As soon as they got back to the lot Jiyong knew something had happened.

“Hold up,” said Timtam as they took in the sight of the crowded back yard and the buzz of voices. “What’s this, then?”

“You think someone got hurt?” asked Jiyong, remembering Millie’s fall: the Cirkies were stood very like they’d been that time, all castes mixed together and some with their hats off. From this distance Jiyong couldn’t hear their words but he could see that they’d grouped themselves into Sells-Floto and John Robinson factions. Timtam shrugged at his question and urged him forward with a smack on the hip; the three of them approached the Sells-Floto group. As usual the most conspicuous person in it was Sky High.

“What happened?” demanded Ed once they’d made a beeline for the giant. Sky High looked down at them.

“The gaffer gave us all notice,” he said mournfully, removing his Stetson hat. Jiyong’s eyes widened; Timtam’s unshaven face turned grim, and Ed just looked sad. It wasn’t any surprise when the big man continued: “He said the Corporation decided at last.”

“What they say?” asked Ed. Sky High frowned ponderously as if trying to recall the exact words.

“‘The Sells-Floto Circus in its current form cannot continue’.”

“What do they mean, current form?!”

“I dunno,” said Sky High. “But we’re finishing the season early, in September. That gives us just three months to try and figure out what to do – ‘cos next season there’ll be no show at all. Coffers are tapped out.” Jiyong stared around, light-headed; he didn’t know how to feel. Some Cirkies looked resigned, others angry or simply lost, but none of them seemed surprised. Timtam let out a string of curse-words under his breath, then shrugged. Jiyong, too, had known Sells-Floto couldn’t last long without a backer, and it would’ve been too much luck to expect someone else to step in after Mr. Insull. And he’d been planning to leave anyway! So why did it feel like the end of the world?

They got through that day’s shows somehow. If the rubes noticed the weird mood they didn’t say so, although there were more scuffles on the Midway that evening between Cirkies and outsiders, and more patches called over to calm things down: the last thing the Circus needed now was another lawsuit from a customer with a bloody nose. Afterwards everyone from the sideshow – men, women, and other – piled into the guys’ car and drank; Timtam had bullied Seunghyun’s assistant Jenny ‘til she’d given up the location of his akvavit stash, and now the girl was there too, getting tipsy under the maternal eyes of Flora and Carolina and shooting Jiyong resentful looks – she certainly blamed him for Seunghyun’s leaving. Jiyong joined them: he didn’t feel truly comfortable with the legitimate kinkers, he never had. _This_ was his home; but for how much longer?

Later, when half the sideshow crew was asleep and the other half had gone off to town in search of more booze, Jiyong returned to his lonely compartment. He was kinda buzzed but not too plastered to know what he was doing. Like Seunghyun before him he removed his small valise and a sailor’s backpack from under the bunk and began to gather his things. He didn’t know where he’d look first, but Terrell’s announcement seemed a sign that he oughta go _somewhere_. He didn’t pack everything, it wouldn’t fit; besides, if he found Seunghyun and could persuade him back they could maybe keep working for at least the final couple of months. They’d need the money more than ever now. He’d have to speak to Terrell before he left – he wasn’t looking forward to that but he didn’t need any more enemies in the entertainment business. Then he remembered his new manager Kaplan and brightened up: maybe _he_ could help. They had a contract signed, didn’t they, Insull or no Insull. Kaplan might be able to fix things for him.

Jiyong was shoving his precious letters from his family – and one affectionate note that’d arrived from Tom Mix and might actually be worth some money – into the knapsack when he remembered there were a few of Seunghyun’s letters still in the desk drawer; the one Jiyong hadn’t wanted to look into again. He opened it now and went through the correspondence: nothing very recent, a couple of notes from Youngbae and a list of must-listen new jazz hits from Daesung. But here was one in a hand he didn’t recognize; he vividly recalled the mysterious trips to the post office Seunghyun had been taking, the mail he hadn’t wanted to show Jiyong. He knew it wasn’t right to snoop – as a matter of fact he thought it might be illegal – but he drew out the letter and unfolded it. The handwriting was scrawled and untidy and Jiyong could barely make it out; what he could read he didn’t understand. The only things he did were the University of Chicago address at the top, and at the bottom a scribbled signature: _Wyeman_.

Jiyong’s eyebrows furrowed – Wyeman. Then it came to him: Seunghyun’s old professor! He tried to read it again. It still made no sense but he thought he could see a mention of chemicals, some kinda project, and a veiled reference to liquor… _That’s_ what his lover had been so secretive about: he was corresponding with his old mentor. Jiyong almost smiled, ‘cos at the time he’d been worried it was something much more mysterious and nefarious. Then he frowned again: why was Seunghyun writing to Wyeman? For the intellectual stimulation Jiyong couldn’t give him, a kind of academic penpal system? Or… Jiyong gasped quietly – what if the professor had offered Seunghyun a job? There’d been talk of a project in the letter. Seunghyun had said nothing about it, but that didn’t mean anything: ‘til this month he’d never have _dreamed_ of accepting it and abandoning Jiyong to return to Chicago. But now…!

Without wasting another moment Jiyong tucked the letter into his pocket and ran for Terrell’s car, banging on the door ‘til the manager opened it wearing an enormous pair of silk pajamas and an unsurprised expression.

“Who else?” Terrell said wearily, and beckoned Jiyong inside.

“Sorry if you were asleep!” Jiyong chirped in an attempt at courtesy – he needed to keep the man sweet. Terrell grunted and returned to his easy chair.

“I wasn’t. Who could sleep after what I told you all today?” He poured himself a glass of scotch, didn’t offer Jiyong any. “What d’you want this time?” The younger man let out a tremulous breath and told himself to be firm.

“I gotta go to Chicago.”

“So,” said Terrell after a minute’s observation, “you’ve decided he’s not coming back?”

“I _know_ it,” announced Jiyong, thinking of the letter with a sense of betrayal but also understanding. “So I hafta _make_ him.”

“And what do you want me to say to this?” Jiyong inhaled deeply.

“I’d _like_ you to say: ‘Hurry up about it and come back to work’.” Terrell raised his eyebrows.

“You know there’s less than three months ‘til end of season? And that there won’t be another?” Jiyong nodded.

“I need the money; I had to give all my savings to my folks. But it’s not just that, Boss, this is my _place_!” He clasped his hands earnestly. “I’ve never done anything I’ve loved so much: I don’t wanna give it up.” Terrell drank his drink and sat looking at him outta his little eyes for what seemed a very long time. Jiyong got the distinct impression that he was trying not to laugh, though he didn’t see anything amusing in the situation himself.

“…All right,” said the bigger man eventually. Jiyong’s heart leaped. “Come back or don’t come back, with or without your man; it’s all the same to me.”

“ _Thank you_ , Boss!”

“If you _do_ …” Terrell squinted at him. “I was going to let your new manager tell you this later, but you may as well hear it from me.” Jiyong stood there holding his breath. The older man folded his hands across his belly. “I’ve had a piece of personal good fortune to balance out the news about Sells-Floto.” Jiyong stared: what the hell, was he getting married or something? Why was Terrell telling him personal news? “As you may know, the new World’s Fair is to open next year: in Chicago.” Of course he’d heard, his mother was bursting with regional pride about it and Mr. Insull had been involved in its planning, but Jiyong hadn’t exactly been in the right frame of mind lately to care. “There’ll be exhibits of science, architecture, culture,” Terrell informed him. “It’ll have nightclubs and restaurants and famous actors and singers.” He gave Jiyong a significant look. “It will also feature its own circus.” Jiyong’s mouth fell open, and across Terrell’s there spread a proud, complacent smile. “I’ve been offered the management of that circus.”

“ _Wow_!!”

“Wow indeed,” said Terrell, looking happier than Jiyong had ever seen him. “Not only does this give _me_ the promise of employment, it also lets me recruit and propose acts that’ll make this new circus great enough to rival The Big One.” Jiyong’s eyes widened, ‘cos was Terrell-? “Yes,” said the rotund man. “I’m offering you a place – and Seunghyun too, if you can corral him. I’ve already worked it out with your manager: the Fair will open in May next year and you could be there; _if_ you come back and prove to me that you’re loyal as well as dramatic.”[54]

“I’ll come back!” promised Jiyong instantly, his eyes brimming with tears of gratitude. “We _both_ will!”

“Off you go and pack, then,” said Terrell with an expansive wave. “And don’t get all antsy and scurry off into the dark – wait ‘til morning when the trains start running.” Jiyong nodded, his stomach fluttering with the double excitement of having a grand new job to pay the bills and the relief that he’d soon be on his way to Seunghyun. “Oh!” added Terrell. “Don’t mention this to the other Cirkies yet, all right? I’ll offer jobs in my own good time, I don’t need every kinker knocking down my damn door like _you_.”

“Yes, Boss!” cried Jiyong giddily, and left the car. He was too het-up to go back to his compartment just yet: his heart was a-patter with the prospect of seeing Seunghyun again. Instead he walked away from the train and into the empty lot; there were a couple of roustabouts up drinking and cooking something miscellaneous over a campfire in the back yard, but otherwise the night was still. Jiyong padded into the Big Top and stared up at the airy void where his silks were hanging above Ring One. He couldn’t imagine leaving this place, even if _it_ was soon to leave all of them. But if Terrell’s promise and Jiyong’s own determination held he wouldn’t have to. He prayed then, to the spirit of the Circus and everything that made it magic: that in a year’s time he and Seunghyun would be together again, happy and successful under an even greater roof.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 52As Insull told reporters in June 1932: “I’ve gone from the bottom to the top and now to the bottom again. I only hope I will be able to keep a roof over my head and care for my wife.” (Megan McKinney. (July 2, 2017) _Classic Chicago Magazine_.) It wasn’t long after this that the press began to paint him as a super-villain rather than another casualty of the Depression, which suited FDR’s political mission very well. So, even though an arrest warrant hadn’t been issued yet, off he went.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 53Insull’s story after this is a pretty wild ride: escapes by plane, FDR hunting him like a dog with Feds and Interpol etc., midnight expresses, chases, becoming a Greek folk hero, escapes in disguise, extradition, imprisonment, heart attacks, shipwreck, rescue, death threats, an assassination attempt, and in the middle of all that a sensational 2-month trial (same judge as Al Capone!). His rise and fall is what made him “one of the most celebrated, hated, and mostly forgotten figures of the twentieth century” (Wasik, 2007, 4). I may write more about this another day, but basically Insull’s amazing and HBO should give him his own mini-series. That’s all I’m sayin’ XD.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 54Terrell did go on to operate a circus (although it wasn’t that big) at the 1933 World’s Fair after Sells-Floto folded at the end of the 1932 season. Talk about handy for the plot! Tbh, the luck I’ve had with historical events aligning perfectly in this story has been awesome: the two real-life figures from Bombshell that I pretty much plucked from Google on a whim before actually doing any research (Insull and Sells-Floto) turn out to fold at the same time, forcing Jiyong in a new direction; the next World’s Fair is in Chicago, the key city in their lives; Terrell is the one managing the Fair circus; Insull actually knows Capone in real life…all of it. Feels like I planned it but it was blind luck XD.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> This chapter's title song is _After You've Gone_ , a jazz standard written by Creamer and Layton in 1918 and performed by artists like Al Jolson, Louis Armstrong, and Ella Fitzgerald.
> 
> Only two more chapters to go! Makes me feel kind of weird... Anyhoo, looking forward to hearing your thoughts on this installment! :)


	22. Red And Green Signal Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong finally gets proactive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want some more cheery GTOP, check out my Halloween fic 'Apples' :)

“Care for some advice from a married woman?” asked Flora. She was an early riser and was out hanging clothes to air when Jiyong passed with his bags: on the beginning of his quest to reclaim Seunghyun’s heart. She’d guessed where he was going without him saying a word.

“Sure,” he said; why not? She’d already proved she was perceptive, and _her_ relationship was still intact. Flora pegged a cotton slip to the makeshift clothesline.

“Don’t spend too much time apologizing for your sins.” Jiyong frowned: that was exactly what he planned to do. How else would Seunghyun forgive him? His own feelings about his behavior with Mr. Insull were almost irrelevant at this moment: what mattered was getting his beloved back before Seunghyun realized he could just as well live without Jiyong. “Tell him you’re sorry once,” the bearded woman went on in the calm, cool manner with which she did everything. “Better yet, _show_ him. But don’t go listing all the things you’ve done wrong, and don’t tell him everything _he_ did wrong. It’ll only remind you both of the wounds.”

“Oughtn’t we to talk that stuff out, though?” Seunghyun would want to, he was sure: he loved analyzing himself.

“Not really,” said Flora. “Too much and it gets stale.” She set her peg bag down, and to Jiyong’s surprise took his hand. “Yes, talk,” she advised him, squeezing it lightly. “But about how your past mistakes can inform the future – how you can both do better.” Jiyong nodded; that sounded sensible. He hoped he could _be_ sensible, when he knew that every hour it took him to get to Seunghyun would only bring him to a higher pitch of longing.

“Anything else?” he inquired.

“Just good luck.” Flora leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Come back directly: you belong here.” She gave him a wistful smile. “As long as it lasts.”

Jiyong returned her smile and her kiss; it felt kinda funny, they’d never been so affectionate even when they’d been partners, but he decided it was a promising send-off. He left her there in her pink dressing gown and walked on towards the engine ‘til he came to the male sideshow car, where he climbed up and tapped on its side at about the spot where Timtam was hopefully nursing a hangover. He knocked again and waited; he might be somewhere shacking up with his blonde bombshell ‘friend’, they’d been getting real cozy lately. Jiyong wasn’t sure what his cooch show ex-colleague saw in Timtam – there was nothing wrong with his size but everything with his personality. Still, if Timtam _was_ with her Jiyong would have to go wake up Edgar instead. But eventually the high, narrow window swung upward and the dwarf stuck his head through. As another good omen he didn’t swear at Jiyong for waking him, just grimaced a bit in the daylight before peering down at him.

“So you’re goin’, then!” said Timtam loudly, with no consideration for his sleeping bunkmates. Jiyong nodded and hefted his bag; he’d informed Fred and Ezra late last night that he was leaving the show for a while. They’d complained but he had Terrell’s sorta blessing, and everyone was still too sore about the previous day’s announcement to care much.

“Yeah. But I’ll be back soon.”

“With your man on a leash, no doubt.”

“I won’t need one!” stated Jiyong: this morning he felt like he could do _anything_. He hoped it’d stay that way. “Hey, keep an eye on my place, willya? I don’t want some forty-miler pinching my stuff.”

“Can I sleep in there?”

“Ugh, I s’pose so. By all means use my soap!” Timtam grinned at him. Jiyong managed a smile in return, grateful to have someone – even Timtam – watch over his compartment. It wasn’t that the place was in some kinda museum condition but he’d left his nice clothes in there. And in the desk drawer – he had the key around his neck in his depleted jewel pouch – he’d left one of his most treasured possessions. He wasn’t sure where it’d come from, that urge to place Seunghyun’s photograph alongside the ones of himself in the back of the drawer. He’d put it in the middle, the blonde and brunette Jiyongs guarding that beloved face captured on card-stock. It was probably symbolic of _something_.

“Take care, Princess,” drawled Timtam; he flapped his hand in a friendly wave and pulled the window shut. Jiyong picked up his valise.

 _I’ll be back_ _soon_ , he promised again, this time silently. He took another long look at the bright tents and the eternal train, then turned and walked away from the Circus and toward Seunghyun.

 

* * *

 

It was a long journey to Chicago, especially for a man who wasn’t due to be paid ‘til the end of the month and whose pockets were almost empty. The easiest way – relatively speaking – was to hitch into Atteboro and take the trolley line to Boston. From there it was a long-distance jump on the New England States train: Boston, Albany, Buffalo, Chicago. It’d take longer than a day, Jiyong knew that much. The hitching part and the trolley were no problem, low in cost and risk. The longer haul was much more expensive; he took third class to Albany – didn’t think he could afford to shell out for a sleeper car – and napped on a station bench while he waited for the next train: oddly it was cheaper to buy tickets for each leg than one all the way through to Chicago.

If he’d been with Seunghyun he wouldn’t think twice about hopping the train and traveling in a freight car with the hobos and rail-riders; he’d met enough of them on the Sells-Floto train, he knew how to do it: you lurked around by the sidings and sheds near the tracks, then dashed out after the train was already moving, dodged the patrolling station workers, and clung to the edge of any car you could. After that you’d have to climb around or ‘deck’ the top of the train ‘til you found an open door, and hope the brakemen were feeling too kind or lazy to wallop you and throw you back off.

Even alone he thought he might make it and save some money for emergencies; but that was ‘til he actually managed to leap aboard a slow-moving train with a few other men and found an emergency right there. Evidently rail-riding was a culture unto itself and he didn’t know the rules at all: he found out very quickly that, for a guy who looked like him, getting into a strange car without a veteran or someone much bigger and stronger at his back was a recipe for trouble.

“Hiya, Shanghai,” said a youngish man when Jiyong had swung his way triumphantly into a car and was breathlessly congratulating himself on his agility. It was full of feed sacks, and a small group of fellow travelers who’d stared at him for a long minute before this first greeting like he’d dropped in from another planet. “Don’t see your sort ridin’ too often.” Jiyong gave them a smile and anxiously wondered if there was some race rule he’d never heard of: maybe white and non-white rail-riders weren’t meant to mix, in which case he could be in trouble.

“Just figured I’d try it,” he replied meekly. “I’m broke.”

“Join the club.” The young man was actually wearing a shirt and necktie, but they’d seen better days; the others were a mishmash of coats and overalls and other workwear; Jiyong guessed they hopped the trains to go from town to town day-laboring. “What’s with the ink?” the speaker then asked, catching sight of the tattoos at Jiyong’s wrists in the dim light.

“I’m with the circus.” A couple more guys slid forward on their feed sacks for a closer look: a free show was a free show, after all, and there couldn’t be much entertainment on the road.

“So,” said one, “you ridin’ all alone, doll-face?” The hair at the nape of Jiyong’s neck stood up, alert: he knew that tone very well.

“Just for now,” he hedged.

“Got booze?” He shook his head.

“Well, then,” said one of the others with a friendly smile that was even more familiar to Jiyong’s long experience. “How you gonna pay your fare?” Jiyong grit his teeth but smiled back at them.

He managed to jump off again when the freight train slowed through the next station, but not before he’d been pressed to perform some services for which he’d once been accustomed to charging hundreds of dollars. He’d wished then that he carried something more threatening than a pocket knife, but of course he didn’t. In the end he got away with a round of hand-jobs and counted himself lucky he was still skilled enough to satisfy the men so quickly; he could hear them laughing at him as he leapt out on wobbly legs clutching his bags. It’d been a type of hazing, was all he could guess. No, Jiyong didn’t understand this rail-riding world at all, but he now saw it was no place for someone like him[55]. He had to catch the local back to Albany, then pay for the next leg of the long-distance. He boarded like a law-abiding citizen this time, shaken and subdued; not that he wasn’t _used_ to the kinda thing that’d been proposed in that dark, clanging car, but he wasn’t about to give it up with no pay and no enforcers around to make sure things stayed in check; besides, turned out he _wasn’t_ accustomed to it anymore, not with a bunch of hostile strangers, at least. He’d just ride the passenger train and skip meals.

After a long, aching journey he arrived in Chicago powerfully hungry. As soon as he stepped out of the Station he saw a city-full of people who obviously felt the same. He told himself that eating didn’t matter, what he’d had to do in that train car didn’t matter, only finding Seunghyun; but as he was crossing one of the wider streets he became faint and almost stumbled into the path of a hustling Oldsmobile. The driver laid on the horn angrily, and Jiyong knew that before he did anything else he needed to regroup: he was exhausted and apprehensive, and this anthill of a city that’d once been his home was crowding in around him. A group of young men pushed past him to join the breadline at the end of the block. Jiyong gave up and caught the L train to Dami’s.

“You look dreadful!” his sister exclaimed as she dragged him into the house. Jiyong drooped: that was never what he wanted to hear. “Sit down,” she ordered. “George’s out at work.” Jiyong was pleased; he lived in dread of Dami’s husband being laid off like so many others. Dami deposited the baby in his lap. “Feed him,” she suggested, giving him a spoon and a cup of mashed apple and carrot before heading to the stove to start cooking. “Then I’ll feed _you_ , skinny boy!” Jiyong had never done such a thing before. For a minute his nephew looked up at him with large brown eyes flecked with Texas blue: he seemed highly skeptical of Jiyong’s childcare abilities. Jiyong gave him a smile, ‘cos what else could he do? And he found that between ensuring Bertie didn’t toss apple all round the kitchen and keeping him entertained he somehow began to feel better.

“We didn’t know you were coming,” said Dami chidingly when she finally took the boy away and Jiyong was sitting with a bowl of stew in front of him. He took a polite spoonful, then picked up the bowl and drained it.

“Sorry,” he told her between gulps, “it was kinda spur of the moment.” He hadn’t wanted to fork out on a telegram. “How’s everyone?”

“Good, actually.” His sister smiled at him over her own soup spoon while he tore into the bread. “I’ve been thinking of getting a job.” Jiyong stopped eating.

“Why?!”

“I used to like working, remember?” Dami shrugged. “And it’d help.” Jiyong instantly felt that nagging guilt at not being able to do more.

“But what about Bertie?!”

“Mom could look after him while I’m out – now _she’s_ not working anymore.”

“I don’t like it,” said Jiyong. She gave him a look that said she knew what he meant but that he shouldn’t get in her way.

“It probably won’t happen. There’ve been all kinds of demonstrations lately; the single ladies think it’s unfair for us married women to be employed when we have husbands to support us.” She bounced Bertie on her lap. “I do see their point – but it’s not just _me_ : I have a child to raise and parents to care for.”

“I’ll help you,” promised Jiyong. Now the house was paid off he could spare more money for her – he’d have his manager Kaplan get him as many jobs as possible before the World’s Fair opened. His sister gave him a kind glance and changed the subject.

“Dad’s much better, the new prosthetic seems to have worked wonders.” Jiyong sighed; but he was glad. After a bit of silence Dami said: “You bought their place, didn’t you. Mom cried like it was a gift from heaven.” Jiyong reddened.

“Don’t tell Dad it was me, okay?” Now it was her turn to sigh.

“…I wish I could make him think better of you,” she murmured. “But I’m not such an optimist as Claire.” Jiyong knew it: in personality his oldest sister was far more like him than the youngest – they were realists.

“Doesn’t matter,” he assured her. “That’s not why I came.” Dami gave her son the spoon to play with and for a moment sat watching him fondly, her hair coming untucked from its clip. She was a beautiful woman, thought Jiyong, and one day he’d be well-off enough that she could indulge it: he didn’t want her to live like their mother had had to.

“You think Seunghyun’s here,” she said thoughtfully, at last looking up from the baby.

“I _know_ it,” Jiyong corrected her. All his hopes were hinging on it, on that letter still tucked in his pocket.

“I shan’t ask what happened.” She pressed her lips together, the same way Jiyong always did. “But I don’t want you getting hurt. So: have you thought about what you’ll do if you find him?”

“…Kinda,” said Jiyong. He had, all the long way here, and had come up with nothing – no better argument than that he loved Seunghyun and wanted them to spend their lives together. He didn’t know what the older man might want in return. Come to that he didn’t know if Seunghyun would hear him out or even see him at all. Jiyong couldn’t plan, not when his beloved had become such a mystery to him. All he knew was that he was determined to solve it and bring Seunghyun home.

“I better get going,” he told Dami once he was rested and changed and the food had had a chance to do its job. His sister was doing laundry in a big tub, but she straightened up quick and swiped a lock of hair off her face.

“Already! I thought you’d stay the night; George’ll be home soon, he’d love to see you.” Jiyong had his own thoughts on that: he figured the man might still be awkward about Jiyong contributing to the household expenses and things for Bertie. A night under the same roof might only make things more uncomfortable between them. No, Jiyong didn’t belong here; he’d lived on the move long enough to understand home was a set of people and the warmth they made together. He was sad to admit that his sister’s house couldn’t fully provide that, but there it was, and so he oughta be getting along.

“Keep sending me the paper, willya?” he asked, giving them both a hug before shouldering his bags tiredly. “And write me with your news.”

“Where?”

“The train,” he said, quite firm: he’d be back there soon and would finish out the final season with all the others, Seunghyun included, dammit. Dami raised her eyebrows but quickly tamped them back down to give him an encouraging smile. He walked out into the stuffy gray afternoon and took a breath of the city air he’d been raised on.

“Oh, wait!” cried Dami after him; he turned. She hurried down the steps with Bertie on her hip; in her hand was a small box wrapped in brown paper and almost suffocated with twine. “Ri came around the other day, first time in years – I suppose you gave him our address.” Jiyong started back along the walk, his heart suddenly racing ‘cos he had done no such thing. “He wouldn’t stay long,” continued Dami, “but he asked me to give you this the next time you visited. Sorry, I must’ve put the laundry down on it and forgot. Lucky I got to it in time!” Jiyong took the package from her like it might burn him, but there were no stamps or directions on it; if it had come from overseas it must’ve arrived in another box. Afraid to even think of opening it now he stuffed it in the bottom of his canvas bag.

“Thanks,” he said quickly. Dami observed the flush rising in his cheeks but didn’t comment; she only presented the baby to be kissed, then pressed a similar salute to Jiyong’s forehead.

“Fight,” she said, her soap-reddened hand clutching his arm tight for a moment. “You’re my brother, I know you: you won’t let him get away!” Jiyong gave her as much of a smile as he could, ‘cos it was true – he was just like her, they’d been that way even when they were kids, and neither of them liked to give in. Dami went back into the house and Jiyong strode away to the streetcar to head north. This might be his best chance and also his hardest challenge: he had to talk to Seunghyun’s parents.

 

* * *

 

Jiyong was both excited and petrified as he entered Edgewater and made his way to the Nevander household, enduring the stares of the neighborhood’s Scandinavian inhabitants the way Seunghyun must’ve done his whole childhood; nervous of what Seunghyun’s parents might say to him – and what his Tabi might’ve said to _them_ – but mostly at the giddying possibility that he might _be there_. He tried to brace himself mentally, to prepare some words of apology and reconciliation, but he was too jittery: he could feel the blood pounding in his wrists. In the end he simply walked up the front path and knocked at the door.

“Kwon Jiyong!” said Seunghyun’s mother in Korean, looking surprised. The small woman stood in the doorway and gave him a canny stare up and down. “I didn’t expect to see you; Seunghyun didn’t mention you’d come over on this trip.” That gave Jiyong a small thrill – so he _was_ here! Or at least he had been.

“Is he home?” he asked, too tired to make up a fiction about why, as Seunghyun’s ‘assistant’, they hadn’t been traveling together on this imaginary business trip from Seoul.

“No, no,” she said quickly, “he hasn’t been in Chicago at all. He telephoned from…West Virginia, I think. He was going to work in a lab there once, you know.”

“…I know,” managed Jiyong. But that’d been years ago, why would Seunghyun be exploring _that_ possibility again? Oh, it was so hard to think straight. Seunghyun’s mother was watching him carefully, dark eyes flicking from the tattoo on his neck to his face as if waiting to see how he’d take this news. Something about her expression made Jiyong’s instincts prick at him, and through the fog of anxiety he read her in turn and realized she was lying: Seunghyun _had_ been here, he was sure of it, and with a mother’s intuition she was trying to protect him from Jiyong. The fact that she’d never been sure about Jiyong had probably made the lie come naturally. He suppressed the urge to challenge her outright, and instead tried:

“I think there must be a mistake.” Her fingers tightened on the door. “I came out on a different ship but we were supposed to meet in Chicago after he left the West Coast; you see, he had a letter from the University here and he was going to…”

“I don’t know about that,” she interrupted. “But he isn’t here.”

“ _Please_ ,” said Jiyong, frankly begging now and unable to stop himself. “I need to see him!” This was the best chance he had: he couldn’t go knocking up respectable college professors and demanding to see their ex-students, he’d get thrown off campus. Seunghyun’s mom looked like she was moments away from ordering him outta her front yard.

“He’s not here,” she repeated, her gaze resolute. He opened his mouth with no idea what would come out next.

“Jiyong!” called a deep voice from behind him. He turned, already knowing it wasn’t Seunghyun – no-one else sounded like him – and saw the tall, slightly stooping figure of his father. It was evening so Jiyong supposed he was coming home from school: he was wearing a tweed jacket and carried a briefcase. “I didn’t know you were coming!” said Mr. Nevander. Jiyong switched to English to match him.

“Sir, I know it’s an imposition but…I need to see Seunghyun real bad.” He knew he didn’t sound like any kind of business associate right now but like a frightened man searching for someone important to him.

“I _told_ him he’s not here,” said Seunghyun’s mother in a pointed tone that was probably plain as day to her husband: _I don’t want him seeing my son_. The older man glanced at her, then at Jiyong: those light-green eyes felt as perceptive as before. Mr. Nevander wasn’t smiling, but neither did he seem combative. Jiyong recalled the conversation he’d overhead between the two men when he’d stayed over; Seunghyun’s father had hinted that he had no problem with Jiyong personally or with his son’s relationship. But if Seunghyun really was here, what might he have said in his anger and misery? And what would his father think of Jiyong now?

“He honestly isn’t here,” Mr. Nevander told him. Jiyong slumped, his hope dwindling. To his surprise the teacher set a large hand on his shoulder. There was another round of meaningful glances between the tall man and Seunghyun’s mom. Then Jiyong felt the hand squeeze his shoulder and the older man said: “He’s headed back to Seoul.” Mrs. Nevander gave a terse sigh that promised marital discord in the near future. Jiyong blinked at him stupidly, then realized Seunghyun must’ve told them that as an excuse for wherever he was really going: his professor’s place? Youngbae’s? He could be _anywhere_ in Chicago – the only thing Jiyong could do was go hang around the University and hope.

“Oh!” he said, trying to sound like this was only an inconvenience and not a huge worry. “I didn’t think he was due back yet…”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Nevander assured him. “I drove him to buy the tickets, and then to the station.” Wait…what?

“…Tickets?” parroted Jiyong stupidly.

“Mm.” Seunghyun’s father peered down at him through his glasses; he looked sympathetic. “I’m not sure you’ll catch him now: he took the long-distance overland to Los Angeles last night.” Jiyong stared back in horror: he couldn’t be serious! He _couldn’t_ be, hadn’t Seunghyun come to Chicago to get an academic post?! Why would he throw all that away and leave again? But Mr. Nevander was still talking. “Then he’s boarding one of the Matson steamships to Honolulu in…I guess it’ll be three or four days’ time. And from there to…what’s it called, dear?” he inquired of his wife, who was glowering at the both of them with her arms folded.

“…Incheon,” she said dourly.

“I…” Jiyong wanted to cry, and set a hand over his mouth to hide it as the truth hit him: Seunghyun wasn’t playing a waiting game, wasn’t forcing Jiyong to make a stand to save their relationship; he was really and truly leaving him. How could Jiyong possibly follow him to Korea, let alone find him there? He hadn’t brought his fake passport with him, had no money for a ship and no skills to work his way across – unless you counted those skills he’d learned on his back. Seunghyun _knew_ he’d used up his savings on the house, was probably counting on it, if he’d imagined Jiyong trying to follow him at all. Maybe…the younger man’s heart stuttered; maybe Seunghyun thought he wouldn’t even bother.

“You really didn’t know, did you?” Mr. Nevander said gently. Jiyong just gasped behind his hand, his stomach both heavy and hollow. “I’ll tell you what, son,” the older man murmured, as if hoping his wife wouldn’t hear, “how about I drive you to the station too?” Jiyong blinked up at him. “That way you won’t have to wait ‘til you get back to the Company to see him: if you take tonight’s train, and if he has to wait for his ship, you might just make it in time.”

“You…you really think so?!” Seunghyun’s father turned blurry as Jiyong’s eyes filled, but he squeezed the moisture away and grasped the tall man’s sleeve. “Yes, _please_!”

“That’s the spirit!” Mr. Nevander gave him a bracing smile. “I’ll only be a little while, dear,” he told his wife, already drawing Jiyong away from the troubled woman and back down the walk. She shook her head, gave him a look that plainly said she wouldn’t be saving him any dinner, and shut the door with a bang.

Seunghyun’s father drove a coughing blue Fiat that’d seen better days, but it ran and that was all Jiyong cared about: it was already seven o’clock. Mr. Nevander chatted placidly the whole way, while the smaller man panicked about the time and how much this trip was gunna cost: he knew from experience there were really no cheap long-distance trains and the one the older man had mentioned – the Golden State – sounded _expensive_. The nearest ticket office was closing when the car chugged up to the curb, and Jiyong had a moment’s despair ‘cos they sure weren’t about to stay open for the likes of him. Once again Seunghyun’s dad proved his good nature by hustling over and knocking politely on the door; the sight of a tall, blonde, respectable-looking man did the trick, and Mr. Nevander beckoned Jiyong inside.

 _Thirty-five dollars_ , said the girl at the window; for the cheapest fare, no bed, breakfast from the trolley only. Jiyong bit his lip; he removed his money pouch and upended it into his palm: no diamonds now, sadly. He could feel himself going red, eyes prickling with tears as the saleswoman and Mr. Nevander watched him count his emergency fund: one with veiled impatience and the other with some sympathy and undoubtedly awareness that Jiyong wasn’t doing this on any company dime. He had almost forty bucks! With a shuddery breath of relief Jiyong pushed the folded bills and coins across the counter.

“Nine-fifteen,” said the girl, and handed the ticket in its thick paper envelope to Mr. Nevander. “LaSalle Street Station.”

Jiyong was ushered back into the Fiat and they traversed the still-crowded streets downtown. He didn’t have the mental space now to notice the lingering groups of homeless or the covert gatherings of African-American workers’ unions – not even the new protests against companies hiring married females: everything in him was fixated on making that train. It was almost strange when they arrived with time to spare, as if it was some kinda trick. Seunghyun’s father took him for a hamburger and coffee, then helped him find the right platform as if Jiyong was one of his dimmer pupils. The smart red-painted Golden State was boarding already; through the windows Jiyong saw fancy dining cars and Pullman staterooms with enough Deco luxury for the wealthy to cross the country to the West Coast in style. The guards looked askance at Jiyong, whose clothes weren’t exactly in vogue or even tidy and who had a pitiful amount of luggage – and, of course, a ‘foreign’ face. Mr. Nevander kindly took charge again, and after some discussion Jiyong was led to a regular car with seats but no bunks and was stashed in a corner of the back row. He didn’t care: he’d sleep in a coal car if it meant he had a chance to find Seunghyun.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he told Mr. Nevander with a catch in his voice. “I’ll be grateful forever, for giving me the chance to…” He trailed off. The graying Swedish man gave him a look of teacherly benevolence.

“Good luck to you,” he said. “And…be kind to him.” He allowed no time for an answer but departed with a wave, and Jiyong slumped exhausted into his seat next to a guy who looked like a salesman; he had just enough wits about him to notice that the upholstery on his chair was fraying. Then the whistle sounded and steam hissed, mingling to a roar with the shouts of the workers on the platform; the signal lights turned from red to green. They had barely left the station before Jiyong fell into a leaden sleep.

 

* * *

 

The sixty-three hours it took from Chicago to Los Angeles felt like forever and no time at all. Jiyong lost count of the times he disembarked, re-embarked, fell asleep and woke up. He ate less frequently than he slept, and spent more time staring outta the window at the landscape of the changing States. It was nothing like the Sells-Floto train: no-one he wanted to talk to the entire first day and few who seemed keen to speak to him, no hidden moonshine to jolly away the hours. Everything on the Golden State was sleek and shiny, the high-class dining and entertainment and beauty cars so snobbish Jiyong didn’t even venture into them – only if you looked closely could you spot the veneer wearing off the train as it was overtaken by brand-new streamliners like the Super Chief. Through the glass in the salon door he spied a redheaded stunner who looked everso much like Lily getting a manicure. Jiyong dismissed the idea – what would she be doing on an interstate train in the most expensive section? Then he remembered she’d married a wealthy steel magnate, so perhaps it _was_ her. He just didn’t have the spare energy to find out.

On the second day, however, Lily found _him_. He was taking a walk along the corridors to stop himself going stir-crazy in his seat, nibbling on a roll left over from breakfast; it was afternoon and his stomach was rumbling. He paused at the door to the dining car and peered longingly inside, but he knew it was too shiny for him to afford to eat there. A flash of auburn passed the glass and there she was again! It was certainly her, no-one else Jiyong had ever seen was blessed with such hair and such abundantly elegant lines. He ducked back quickly, and even as he did her gaze caught his. In a moment Lily had shouldered open the door and sashayed through it.

“No way!” she exclaimed, catching him by the arm. “Whaddya know, if it isn’t Jiyong!”

“Hi,” he said weakly. A liveried waiter and a couple of customers were peering through to see what the fuss was about – Lily hadn’t bothered modulating her voice – but her tall dynamite frame blocked the doorway sufficiently. Jiyong was still uncomfortable, ‘cos he and Lily had never been what you’d call friends and he wasn’t keen for his old rival to see him at his lowest point since he’d left the House.

“Almost didn’t recognize you without that blonde wave. I never thought I’d see _you_ again!” Lily told him frankly.

“Ditto.” She looked him up and down, curious; Jiyong glanced aside.

“Buy you a drink?” she invited. “My husband’s writing letters and I got time to kill.”

“In there?” He glanced at the dining car, then down at his clothes, knowing he shouldn’t be embarrassed but unable to help it. Lily was wearing a superb traveling suit in her signature green, tailored minutely to hug her figure – too full of racing curves for the flapper look but perfect for the vamp – before falling to a graceful flutter below her knees. Her red hair was barely contained by a woven silk net and she wore more diamonds on her fingers and ears than Jiyong had ever carried in his savings pouch. Lily smiled, kinda smug – she knew how good she looked – but not unpleasant.

“Sure, c’mon. You’re with a wealthy woman – who’s gonna stop you?” Jiyong gave up and allowed himself to drift along in his former colleague’s wake. She regally ignored the looks of the staff and other passengers, leading him to her table in the first-class section. “Cocktail?” she asked. “It says they’re virgin but they’ll ‘freshen’ ‘em if you ask.”

“Actually I could fancy a hot chocolate.”

“You and your sweets,” she said, as if Jiyong was the same kid he’d been back then, and ordered for him. As a matter of fact Jiyong wanted something filling and the thick creamy chocolate was as good as a meal – she’d had it laced with brandy, too. He blew on it and she leaned back and watched him. There was a touch of triumph there for sure, ‘cos whichever way you swung it Lily had clearly won their old fight: you only had to look at them to see who’d become top dog.

“You’re doing well, I guess?” he said, to give her her due.

“Sure.” She smiled her gorgeous smile. “Married six years but we still have our fun – I think I much prefer being the second wife, however much the Society bitches gossip.”

“Kids?”

“Two. They’re with the nanny.” You couldn’t tell from looking at her, thought Jiyong, finding a great deal to be envious of. It was plain that she knew it, too, but as he watched he saw her gaze turn from complacent to curious. “What the hell happened to you?” she inquired with another smile. “We were all dying to know – it was chaos in there right up to the day I left.” She rested her hand on the table so Jiyong couldn’t miss her spectacular ring.

“I ran away,” he said.

“Yeah, we figured, but then the Outfit swarmed the House and Seungri wouldn’t tell us a thing. I was gone before I heard anything else, but didn’t the boss sell the place?”

“Yup.” Jiyong didn’t care to go over all that again.

“So, where’d you go?”

“I joined the circus.” Lily stared at him and Jiyong pushed up his sleeve to reveal his tattoos. “Now I’m an acrobat – a real good one!” He couldn’t help boasting just a little bit, he’d never liked it when Lily bested him. “Look out for my act come winter.” The tall woman gawped at him a minute longer, then started laughing.

“Oh, Jiyong! I _am_ glad I spotted you, I haven’t heard anything that goddamn funny in ages!”

“Sounds it, huh,” said Jiyong with a sigh. Lily wiped her lashes to stop her makeup smudging and called for more drinks, curling her lip at two older ladies who were giving them the side-eye.

“And Tabby Cat?” she asked, her expression growing fond. “What about him?”

“He came with me.”

“Course he did,” she said with what sounded like satisfaction. Jiyong looked down into his cup and swallowed. She’d been so certain of Seunghyun’s devotion, as sure as he’d been himself – and it’d all come to this. “What went wrong?” demanded Lily after a pause. “C’mon, you think _I’m_ gonna bother judging you?”

“…We were doing real well,” he said quietly. “We had success and job security and a home, and he loved me.”

“And?” Lily took a sip of her Manhattan, cherry between her lips, as absently seductive as Jiyong had always been. He clasped his hands between his knees.

“And then Mr. Insull found me.”

“Ahh,” said Lily: coolly, without judgment, and with great understanding. “He would; we heard he was outta his mind when you left. Well. I won’t blame you for taking up with him again: people like us need a sugar daddy.” Jiyong wasn’t about to explain all the twisted emotional details of that; easier to simply nod.

“But now he’s gone. And so has Seunghyun.”

“He didn’t like it, huh? Such a romantic, that boy.” Jiyong bit his lip. It was kinda nice to be in company with someone who understood what he’d done and saw no crime in it; but he still felt pathetic, underscored as always by the low current of panic that he might not find Seunghyun in time.

“I fucked up,” he admitted.

“…You’re chasing him, aren’t you!” Lily surmised after digesting this. He nodded again shortly. “Sure! Why else would you be slumming it down the cheap end all alone? Where’s he going, L.A.?”

“Yeah. And then to Korea.”

“Jeez, talk about dramatic!” She looked highly entertained. “Never thought I’d see the jewel in the House’s crown running the entire country for the sake of a _bartender_.” She chuckled in a way he’d describe as cheerfully condescending. “You’ve got it bad, huh!”

“Oh, yes,” said Jiyong thickly.

“That’s cute,” she told him, secure enough in her wealth and comfort to be kind to him. “No, it really is. I hope you find him – I always liked him, the big soft palooka. And _you_ were always the best, I’ll give you that; if anyone can charm him back, you can.”

“Thanks,” he said, though he feared it was gunna take a lot more than charm to bring Seunghyun home.

“Wish I could be there to see it.” Lily grinned. “Sounds as good as a movie. But we’re getting off this evening at Tucson, taking a resort vacation.” With an effort Jiyong smiled back. He let her brag as much as she liked – he reckoned she’d worked hard enough for it – and tried to enjoy the luxury of the dining car as long as she wanted his company. But it was hard to be sociable or even attentive.

At last Lily wound down and told him she had to go check the maid’s packing: they were disembarking soon. She wished him luck, said it’d been fun to see him – though Jiyong guessed she’d rather talk to Seunghyun – and that she’d bring her kids to one of his theater shows. They parted civilly, without any kisses or handshakes, and Jiyong left her to her sparkling life and returned to his commonplace seat, exhausted.

He was digging through his bag in search of a comb and toothbrush to make himself feel slightly more human when his fingers made contact with the mysterious box Dami had given him; he’d been so agitated between then and now that he’d forgotten about it. He drew it out of the bag, then slumped back in his seat and looked at it: about four inches square, neatly folded brown paper that was rubbing away at the corners where it’d been jounced around in his backpack, and altogether too much string. It was tied in a complex sequence of weaves and knots that’d be very difficult to replicate – most likely to discourage Ri from opening it to take a peep inside. Jiyong knew quite well who it was from, if only by the pedantic nature of that string; he knew that if the box had had any label he woulda recognized the handwriting instantly. He couldn’t imagine what it contained and didn’t want to open it: he couldn’t afford to be knocked any further off balance than Lily had already made him. But Mr. Insull must’ve either left it with his nephew before he fled Chicago or sent it on from Canada. Maple syrup? thought Jiyong, slightly hysterical. He laughed to himself and caught the salesman beside him giving him a weird look; he probably wasn’t the most pleasant travel companion right now.

“You okay?” asked the salesman, awkward at having caught the strange Asian’s eye.

“No,” Jiyong told him truthfully, and carefully put the box back in his bag. That was the last bit of conversation they had.

 

* * *

 

By the third day he was hungry again – surviving only on breakfasts and pocketed rolls wasn’t sustainable – and losing hope that he’d ever catch up with Seunghyun like this. At last they entered the dusty sun-drenched acres of California. Jiyong looked out passively at the rolling miles: somewhere out there was Tom Mix’s luxury ranch and the five Tonys, and beyond that lay Hollywood, where the cowboy was making new movies to delight the masses. Jiyong wished the man was still with them: he’d been a steadying influence and might even have prevented Sells-Floto going under. But it was too late for all that.

Some hours later they arrived in Los Angeles, their final destination. The passengers who’d traveled the full distance got off the train as if they were saying goodbye to either a holiday home or a hostel[56], depending on what class they’d traveled. Jiyong stepped out into a blaze of sunshine, his knees beginning to wobble – he’d come more than two thousand miles and felt like he’d walked every step of the way – but he hefted his bags and peered around the crowded platform. He was immediately informed by a porter that he was in the goddamn way; he felt lost and afraid, had never traveled this far alone, but he _had_ to be an adult about this today of all days: he had to get to the port.

“Which port?” asked a man with a long face and longer hair standing next to Jiyong at the nearest streetcar stop he’d managed to find.

“Port of Los Angeles!” He knew that much from Seunghyun’s dad.

“Which _bit_?” added the local; they both shuffled over as a group of young men pushed past them speaking Italian.

“The bit the Hawaii steamships go from.” A streetcar was approaching. The man considered for an infuriatingly long minute, then gave Jiyong the number of the service he oughta take. Jiyong closed his eyes and prayed his advisor was right.

The streetcar was hot and madly crowded, people chattering in all languages squashed against each other; Jiyong could barely get off the damn thing at the Port. When he did he coulda bitten his tongue in dismay: it was even busier, nothing but buildings and automobiles and people and train tracks as far as the eye could see, and above them the hulking silhouettes of ships. Jiyong had never been to L.A. before, let alone one of the biggest harbors in the U.S., and it stunned him. He found himself running, unable to be sensible or sedate, asking the way to the Matson vessels of every man in uniform or a sailor suit he saw. Some of them ignored him, others shouted casual insults, but finally he crashed into a sinewy old gentleman who picked him up and, after a scolding, gave him some answers.

“Matson line goes out to Honolulu every Saturday, reg’lar,” said the old-timer, who seemed to be there simply to watch the ships and by the look of it sample the bottle in his pocket.

“ _Today’s_ Saturday!” exclaimed Jiyong.

“Sure,” said the guy as if the younger man was an idiot. “ _SS City of Los Angeles_ : she’s leaving berth at noon on the dot with all the bells an’ whistles.”

“What time is it?!”

“Lessee.” The man ponderously drew out an ancient pocket-watch and fiddled with its case; it seemed to be giving him some trouble.

“Doesn’t matter!” Jiyong almost yelled. “Where’s it leave from?!”

“Berth one-five-six,” said his helper, and pointed vaguely to the left. “Thataway.” Jiyong thanked him, then took to his heels.

He knew he’d gone wrong when all he saw on the docks was freight, the only people sailors and harbor workers. Where were the passenger ships?! He turned hither and thither, the trucks and huge pallets of goods from around the world hemming him in. It felt like ages before a sweet young sailor was charmed enough by his breathless fright to point him in the right direction. Jiyong took off running again, weaving between the cranes and crates and people like he was still a boy of thirteen; glancing away from the wharf he spotted a clock on the tower of a brick office building: _eleven-forty_! He almost cried aloud at the sight and sped up; once he tripped, dropping his luggage and skinning his palms to stop himself falling on his face, but he picked himself up and sped on. It was at least another five minutes before he saw the towering white bulk of the _Los Angeles_ liner up ahead, its decks filled with passengers and the wharf below crowded with spectators and family waving them off. It was so packed that Jiyong was claustrophobic and gasping for breath like a heroine in a pulp novel by the time he’d shoved his way through, crushing people’s shoes underfoot and being hit by waving hands. He dashed for what he guessed was the gangplank and was promptly stopped by two uniformed men.

“No you don’t, sonny,” said one, taking his arm. “What you think this is, a public bus? Ticket or you don’t get on.” Jiyong wanted to scream at him.

“But I gotta see someone!”

“No more visitors,” the official told him implacably. “We’re already unmooring, look!”

“Please,” begged Jiyong, “I hafta know if my…if my brother’s on board!” The men gave him a pair of doubtful looks.

“Steerage?” asked the first guy after taking in his clothes. Jiyong didn’t know what that meant but the official was nodding to his companion, who produced a thick bundle of papers and flipped through to the back. “Who’re you after?” he demanded.

“Seunghyun Nevander…” stammered Jiyong.

“Nice easy name!” exclaimed the second man. He skipped some more pages and ran his finger down the paper. “Nevander…” Jiyong waited without taking a breath: for all he knew Seunghyun could be planning to board a different steamer – or had already. Maybe he wasn’t taking the direct route to Hawaii, maybe… All he knew was that if Seunghyun wasn’t here he would never find him[57]. While the man was looking a stream of people of various classes began to disembark from the vessel, calling back instructions to be good and have fun and write. Jiyong’s captor tugged him aside to make way for them.

“ _Please_ ,” entreated Jiyong, because he knew that meant they were leaving.

“…Here we go,” said the official at long last, tapping the paper. “He’s on the manifest all right: steerage class.” Jiyong took an enormous breath and his whole body tensed: as soon as the man let go his arm he was gunna sprint up that gangplank and he wasn’t getting off ‘til he had Seunghyun’s hand firmly in his own! He’d stow away all the way to Hawaii if he had to, he wasn’t gunna lose now! “…Oh,” he heard the man add. “But he hasn’t boarded.”

“…What?” managed Jiyong dumbly.

“He bought a ticket,” explained the official like he was speaking to a very stupid child or a foreigner. “But he’s not here.”

“Then…then where is he?”

“How should I know?” The man holding Jiyong squinted up at the vast ship. As he did so there was a long peal of sound: the steamer’s whistle was blowing. Its towering black stacks let out twin puffs of steam as if the ship had begun breathing. At the same moment a series of pops echoed along the busy deck, and a rain of colored paper streamers and confetti came floating down on the salt breeze. There was a cheer from below, and renewed waving. “Well he’s not getting on now,” the official told Jiyong briskly. He turned the smaller man loose and both employees stepped onto the gangplank. “He’s literally missed the boat!” He gave Jiyong a not-unsympathetic shrug, then forgot about him and hurried up the slope before the walkway could be drawn up. Jiyong looked around wildly: the crowd was surging forward, shouting bon voyages and messages up at the passengers; through the forest of bodies he saw an army of dock workers slipping the enormous cables that held the ship to the wharf. The man was right: Seunghyun wasn’t coming.

Jiyong watched, numb all over to the festive emotions around him as the _Los Angeles_ was slowly eased away from shore by two tugboats. The people on the decks looked like an advertisement for a luxury vacation or extras in a Hollywood picture – or like a dream. It would’ve been awful enough if Seunghyun had been among them, sailing away from him and out of reach; but far worse to have lost him completely. Jiyong knew that in this strange city teeming with people – he’d seen sporting posters on the way for the ‘Games of the X Olympiad’, no wonder there were so many foreigners around – he would never, ever find his beloved.

He stood there even as the crowds began to leave, staring at the empty berth and the dwindling ship. What else could he do? Where could he go? Why hadn’t Seunghyun _come_? He had roughly three dollars to his name: not enough to get outta the State, never mind to Chicago or to wherever Sells-Floto was pitched right now. The only thing he could think of was to wait at the dock every day before the sailing of each Hawaii-bound steamer, in case by some miracle Seunghyun had changed his ticket at the last minute; but he couldn’t afford a place to stay, not even a week’s worth of meals. There were as many jobless refugees from the Midwest seeking work here as anywhere. Jiyong’s jaw clenched; he did have one way of earning cash, one that never went outta style. Back at the House it’d been what he was most afraid of coming to: selling himself on the street. But he could do nothing without money, and so he would. He’d do _anything_.

With that decision made he nodded to himself but still couldn’t move, only turn his eyes from the horizon to the deep, dark water of the berth far below him. It scared him on a practical level ‘cos he’d never learned to swim; but more dispiriting than that was its _emptiness_. He stared down at its unreflective surface, mind unsteady and slow now, hungry and sick with his failure. It was hot, the sun unkind and the harbor so loud… Jiyong took a shaky breath and the pain from his skinned palms needled upward to bite him behind the eyes. He clutched his valise tight, hurting his hand further, looked into the grimy depths of the berth and began to cry. As the tears dropped involuntarily from his eyelashes he heard an astounded voice behind him say:

“… _Jiyong_?”

At the sound of that voice Jiyong’s entire body went weak and shivery; it couldn’t be, the world was far too set on punishing him for that! As he tried to turn his blurry vision started spinning and he knew without a doubt that he was gunna fall, could _feel_ the distant water pulling him down towards it in one last cosmic joke. He cried out at the unfairness of it, not at the danger to himself but ‘cos he had come _so close_ to–

Something caught him hard by the collar, arresting his fall. He was half-throttled as the hand dragged him backwards, and then he found himself caught in a convulsive embrace, familiar arms squeezing him from behind and breaths as disordered and panicked as his own in his ear. The voice spoke again, only one person in the world had a voice like that, and every nerve in Jiyong’s body was suddenly alight; he let his head fall back as the arms held him tighter and Seunghyun’s voice vibrated against his neck: “Oh, my God… _Jiyong_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 55Rail-riding in the early 20th century was a subculture unto itself and became even more widespread in the Depression; while many people managed to do it safely it could also be terribly dangerous if you were alone and vulnerable. It was in my mind thanks to recently reading the biography of Carl Panzram, who in the 1900s endured a horrifically abusive childhood (both on and off trains) and grew up to be a terrible serial killer (of men, he had zero interest in women in every sense), worldwide mayhem machine, and later a genuinely superb writer. He talked about this rail/hobo culture in his journals and letters, lots of which are collected in _Panzram: A Journal of Murder_ (Gaddis & Long, 2002). There’s also a great 3-episode _Last Podcast On The Left_ series about him and this historical period, if you want to be fascinated and creeped out at the same time![return to text]  
> 
> 
> 56In those days taking a long-distance train was like an exciting holiday if you had the money: around this time ‘streamliner’ trains were just beginning to come in. They were sleek, beautiful and deco, with luxurious dining cars, private bedrooms and other amenities – if you were willing to pay. For ordinary people such a coast-to-coast journey would be considered an expensive ride.[return to text]  
> 
> 
> 57Apparently getting to Korea at that time was a right pain in the arse. Most routes went from Hawaii to Busan or Incheon; getting a steamer to Honolulu was the easy bit as it was a popular holiday destination. Then there’d be a weeks-long voyage. If someone went on ahead of you without giving you the details it would be virtually impossible to find them again if they didn’t want to be found; it wasn’t like you could track their credit card![return to text]  
> 
> 
> This chapter's title song is _'Red And Green Signal Lights'_ , a 19th century mountain folk song recorded by Grayson & Whitter in 1929.
> 
> Only one more chapter to go! *_*  
>  Will the boys manage to reconcile...?


	23. Body And Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jiyong finds what he's looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, final chapter! Also wahhh, final chapter! Hope you like it :)

Seunghyun clung to Jiyong as if he wanted to make his arms a prison, his chest heaving against the smaller man’s back. Jiyong didn’t care that Seunghyun was cutting off his air – he was so dizzy and disbelieving that it made no difference. He simply sagged in his lover’s lifesaving embrace and sobbed.

“…You’re all right,” the older man assured him against his cheek. “You’re okay, I’m here.”

“You’re _here_ ,” echoed Jiyong, and let out a hiccupping laugh through his tears. “Tabi…”

“C’mon, get back from there. You idiot, why were you standing so close?!” Seunghyun picked up the luggage – Jiyong’s and what must be his own – and drew him away from the edge of the wharf. When they were at a safe distance he turned Jiyong round in his grasp and at last allowed their eyes to meet. Jiyong blinked away the dampness and saw Seunghyun’s perfect face after…it felt like forever, all the more ‘cos he’d been so certain he would never see it again. “How did you _get_ here?” demanded Seunghyun; he looked almost as shocked as Jiyong, his features a kaleidoscope of emotions.

“Your dad,” explained Jiyong, knowing that it wasn’t much of an explanation, but he still felt so weak. “I mean…I left the Circus.” Seunghyun’s eyebrows shot up. “I waited…to see if you’d come back, but something was _telling_ me to go, and then I found that letter and I thought…I thought you were getting a job in Chicago but…”

“What job? What letter?” Seunghyun dropped the valises again and tightened his hands around Jiyong’s waist to support him; Jiyong clung to his shirt and tried to think.

“…I dunno, no job, and then your dad told me you were going to _Korea_.” He heard his voice crack again at the thought of it; Seunghyun’s jaw tightened. “But he helped me come after you, oh, Tabi, I thought you were _gone_!”

“I almost was,” said Seunghyun quietly. Did he sound regretful? And for what? Jiyong’s exhausted brain began to panic again, but the bigger man looped an arm around his shoulders, balanced their belongings and led him back up the dock. “But I’m still here.” Jiyong held on to him and ignored the curious eyes of the workers as Seunghyun guided him away from the water. “You’re about to fall down,” Seunghyun told him as they neared the Port exit. He stopped the younger man and touched his face. “Are you sick?” Jiyong shook his head, which caused a throbbing ache.

“Just hungry… Spent all my money on the train ticket.”

“Then what were you gonna do,” asked Seunghyun in apparent horror, “if you couldn’t find me? Or if you found I’d gone on ahead of you?!”

“I dunno, I wasn’t thinking, all I knew was that I had to get to you…” Jiyong gazed up at him; to his surprise Seunghyun’s eyes were wet.

“…I didn’t think you’d try,” he confessed. Then, taking in Jiyong’s condition, he pulled himself together. “But never mind that now. Let’s get you out of the sun, and _then_ you can tell me everything.”

Jiyong didn’t remember much between leaving the dock and entering the poky but cool boarding-house a few minutes’ walk away. Seunghyun had stopped and bought them both sandwiches and sodas and made him eat some right there on the street, had spoken to the old man guarding the reception desk; but all Jiyong could recall was the sensation of Seunghyun’s arm around him and the blessed shade as they entered the house. Seunghyun helped him up a set of narrow stairs and into an even narrower room; the blinds were drawn, shutting out the heat of the California summer. The older man closed the door, then pulled a cord and a wooden ceiling fan began to turn lazily.

“Lie down,” instructed Seunghyun. “Shoes off. Here, drink your soda.” Jiyong watched him move around the room, removing his own shoes and socks and finishing his sandwich. Every so often his eyes would dart towards Jiyong and linger on him ‘til he remembered he was in the middle of doing something. Jiyong reclined on the bed gratefully after splashing his hands and face in the cracked sink. The cool water brought him back to awareness and he began to wonder what Seunghyun was thinking, what he was feeling at having Jiyong come after him and immediately lean on him for aid. He’d be right to be reserved and cautious. But after a minute Seunghyun finished fiddling and came to recline beside him on the rickety bed. Jiyong’s heart skipped, disbelieving and happy beyond his control. The older man leaned up on one elbow and regarded him.

“Head still hurt?”

“Not so much,” said Jiyong. Seunghyun brushed a damp strand of hair off his forehead, then withdrew his hand. Jiyong wasn’t sure what to make of his manner.

“Why did you come?” he asked Jiyong carefully, in a tone Jiyong also couldn’t read.

“I had to,” said Jiyong without hesitation. “I love you.” Seunghyun’s mouth thinned like he was concealing some kinda strong emotion. Almost dreading the answer, the smaller man asked: “…Why didn’t you get on the boat?” Seunghyun sighed, large brown eyes gazing at him as if he’d never tire of it.

“I tried; but I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave without seeing you just once more.” Jiyong felt his heart flutter; he reached out, not knowing if the other man would reciprocate but unable to help himself. Seunghyun caught his hand; those long, clever fingers, he’d missed their touch so badly! Tabi’s grip was so tight it was verging on painful. Jiyong tried to hide his wince but Seunghyun noticed and opened his palm to examine the scrapes there. He seemed about to suggest a course of treatment when Jiyong blurted out:

“I’m _so sorry_ , Tabi! For hurting you, and for not coming sooner. I know I’ve done…oh, so many things to make you unhappy…” He remembered Flora’s advice and stopped himself from listing them. Instead he said simply: “Can you ever forgive me?” He had to know, needed to prepare himself for whatever it’d take to make things right. Seunghyun’s eyes turned from his hands to his face, the most intent stare Jiyong had ever felt; for an eternity of time it burned him. Then Seunghyun bent and kissed his palm.

“…Perhaps,” he said. Jiyong sucked in a deep breath, but he went on. “I didn’t think I could – I didn’t think you’d come at all. And then I didn’t _want_ to. But perhaps I can. After all, what choice do I have?” He raised his head. “I’ve tried to fight it these past weeks, but there’s nothing I can do about it: I’m still in love with you.” At that Jiyong felt a rush of chemicals to his brain more spectacular than any firework show his beloved had ever put on. He took Seunghyun’s face in his injured hands and drew him close; he could see the bigger man wanted to kiss him and he wanted it too, of course he did. But for the moment he just pressed their foreheads together. Seunghyun looked like he wanted to add something, some warning or condition of his forgiveness; then he simply shook his head and touched Jiyong’s cheek.

“I promise I’ll be good to you,” Jiyong swore: no more lying or sneaking around or acting entirely according to his own notions of morality – once and for all they’d somehow have to work that out between them, to finally try and _understand_ each other. “I don’t _ever_ wanna lose you!” The touch of Seunghyun’s skin on his own was so sweet and familiar it made him sigh. He supposed they oughta talk about it, the disaster they’d just averted and what they’d need to do to avoid another in future. He wanted to tell his Tabi about how kind his father had been in helping him, and ask him about Wyeman and the photographs and everything else. Seunghyun just gave him an uncertain smile; he touched the tip of his finger to Jiyong’s lips as if to quiet him. Then he leaned in and kissed him.

Jiyong experienced a full-body shiver at the careful press of Seunghyun’s mouth, and an ache of longing so deep it was almost painful. The older man made a low, soft sound as his lips left Jiyong’s, then returned, over and over, breath mingling as their mouths slipped against each other. Incoherently Jiyong thought they were communicating better like this, in silence, than with any clumsy explanations he’d ever tried to give, and could only hope that this wasn’t to be their last time: once more, Seunghyun had said – he’d wanted to see him _just once more_. He felt Seunghyun’s tongue slide against his own – perhaps he _had_ caught a touch of the sun, he was suddenly molten hot throughout at the contact, and with that heat all his fears burned away to immerse him in the present. He moaned and Seunghyun’s hands caught him hard again around the waist.

“Can you…?” muttered Seunghyun urgently, lips hovering above his. “I mean, are you well enough?” Even after everything he was this solicitous, it was really a marvel.

“Can _you_?” asked Jiyong in turn: it was Seunghyun who oughta be making this decision – it was _him_ who’d been hurt, and Jiyong had never imagined they could be this close again this fast without any clever persuasion or patience on his part. Seunghyun truly must love him beyond anything! It was _astonishing_ – but everything his Tabi had done since the day they’d met had been a revelation. He let his fingers glide along Seunghyun’s jaw, re-learning the planes of the face he’d last seen warped with betrayal and misery, and up to tangle in his hair. Seunghyun bent his head and pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot behind Jiyong’s ear; the younger man heard him inhale.

“Oh, _yes_.”

They played no games this time, no tricks with the dynamics of power; nevertheless Jiyong, and he hoped Seunghyun too, underwent a kind of catharsis in that small room with its ponderous fan and sunlight bursting like white metal around the edges of the blind. Seunghyun stripped him of clothing so deliberately that Jiyong figured each garment thrown aside represented something significant to the older man – some memory of Jiyong’s neglect or cruelty he wished to discard. For Jiyong it was more a raw desperation to feel Seunghyun’s flesh upon his again, to prove he was really here; and yet when the taller man was naked in his arms he lost the need to rush and instead stroked and caressed him gratefully from head to toe, that perfect living statue of a body awakening under his fingers. In the warmth of his skin Jiyong forgot his unpleasant experience hopping the train, forgot Tabi’s mother and how she’d tried to keep them apart, and everything else. Seunghyun’s large hands slid down his back and their limbs tangled in a beautiful confusion of black ink and smooth gold.

“You really did miss me…” rumbled Seunghyun, like that was something so amazing. Jiyong didn’t reply, just replaced his hands with his mouth and moved down the older man’s throat, his sternum, black hair trailing across his skin to tickle him. He touched his pink tongue to the tip of Seunghyun’s nipple, then closed his lips over it to taste him. Seunghyun groaned and set his palm above the angel tattoo, cupping the back of his neck to pull him closer.

“…Is there something you’d like me to do?” murmured Jiyong, still teasing the erect nub of flesh as he spoke. He looked up and met Seunghyun’s gaze. “I’ll do _anything_.” His lover swallowed, adam’s apple jumping in his throat.

“Whatever you want,” said Seunghyun solemnly, and petted his head. “It was always so much better than anything I could dream.” Jiyong gave him a smile without a hint of guile, the first smile he could remember for days.

“It’s the same for me. I want you to know that, Tabi: there’s never been anyone else like you – there never will.” Seunghyun pulled him up and kissed him again, possessive and worshipful. His fingers brushed Jiyong’s left nipple for a moment before his palm flattened over the smaller man’s heart, above the secret hangul in which Jiyong had recorded their first meeting.

“You thought I changed your life,” muttered Seunghyun against his mouth. “Enough that it’s here on your skin forever.”

“Yes…” whispered Jiyong.

“I hope,” said Seunghyun gravely, “you’ll always think that was for the best.” Jiyong nodded: even after their many crises he’d never choose to change it. Seunghyun smiled, just slightly, and Jiyong kissed him again.

He figured they could go on forever like that, lips upon lips and his own slight frame pressing down atop the older man’s; Seunghyun’s hands held him even closer, Jiyong’s thighs bracketing his hips and every place their skin touched growing damp as the fan moved thick summer air around the room in a lazy current. He was content with the dreamlike pace, happy to feel the tips of Seunghyun’s fingers outlining his old tattoos and the bullet scar on his arm. But his lover was getting hard beneath him and Jiyong wanted some of _that_ , too.

He continued to make his way down Seunghyun’s body, laying his cheek against his torso to feel the quick rise and fall of his breath, then further to taste the salt sweat on his lean stomach. Seunghyun’s hands traveled with him, massaging and stroking wherever they could reach ‘til Jiyong dipped lower and with an ardent sound of pleasure took the bigger man’s cock in his mouth. Seunghyun was fully hard in an instant; his hands closed into fists in Jiyong’s hair before he gentled them again, cradling his head as he serviced him like Jiyong was made of a precious material, one that required special handling but was nevertheless too dearly loved to keep at a distance. Jiyong took Seunghyun’s erection deeper and indulged himself in sensation: the shape, taste, texture, heat, and all the memories of their previous times together that the act was drawing out of him.

“Wait…” Seunghyun’s breath had turned harsh but his voice was still gentle as he tightened his hold on Jiyong’s hair to draw his head back. Jiyong looked up at him, panting, his lips shining. “Lemme join in.” He held the smaller man still and wriggled round on the narrow bed so he could close his lips over Jiyong’s cock at the same time. Jiyong let out a delighted whimper, then muffled it by resuming his attentions to Seunghyun with renewed enthusiasm. When they’d enjoyed this act in the past it’d usually ended up a contest – one Jiyong invariably won thanks to his phenomenal technique but which was a hell of a lotta fun in any case. This time he held back, matching the older man’s pace and tailoring his moves to what he knew Seunghyun liked best. It required more skill, he found, but their synchronized escalation in pleasure made it more intimate than it’d ever been.

“…Is it enough like this, Tabi?” he asked hoarsely after disengaging with a wet, licentious sound, taking the older man’s cock in his hand and kissing its length. Seunghyun lifted his head and Jiyong felt a stirring of cool air on his own erection.

“What…do _you_ think?” He seemed to be genuinely asking.

“Closer,” Jiyong told him: he wanted Seunghyun inside him, wanted them to claim each other again; not exactly to erase the past months of unhappiness but to try and build on and move beyond them, before Seunghyun decided this was a _mistake_. He heard the older man growl softly in approval; he bit his lip as a wet finger began to circle the delicate skin between his buttocks, teasing and admiring. He wished he’d had time to take a bath and make himself perfect for his lover, or at least wash the days of travel off his body. But then Seunghyun had never cared about stuff like that and didn’t seem to now. He repositioned Jiyong on his stomach and nudged his thighs apart to give himself better access; he aimed a gentle bite at the meat of the smaller man’s ass, and Jiyong gasped out his own growl of arousal. His hands twisted in the thin cotton sheet as Seunghyun opened him up, patient and careful as he always tended to be when Jiyong didn’t ask for something rougher, like Jiyong had never been touched by a man before. Seunghyun tapped him on the thigh and he glanced round inquiringly.

“Anything to help?” asked Seunghyun; his face was pink with concentration. Jiyong leaned over the side of the bed and fumbled in his bag, ‘cos he’d hoped hard enough that this would happen to bring lubrication just in case – presumptuous, maybe, but happily justified. Seunghyun turned him onto his back. “Wanna see your face,” was all he said. Jiyong smiled, dragged him down and kissed him; he got the lid off the Vaseline without looking and warmed the slick jelly in his hand before caressing Seunghyun’s cock. He watched his lover’s face, saw his outrageous eyelashes flutter and his stare go glazed at the sensation.

“Now,” urged Jiyong, wrapping his tattooed legs around Seunghyun’s hips and reeling him in with one hand to guide him. “I already waited too long…!” He exhaled as Seunghyun eased into him and let out a decadent shudder of gratification as he was slowly filled. The bigger man was touching him everywhere, palms sliding over his arms and chest and belly as they began to rock in time. Jiyong cupped his face and simply gazed at him, hardly able to believe his good fortune. He wondered briefly if Seunghyun would’ve been so moved if he hadn’t almost fallen in the ocean like an idiot – but it didn’t matter now because here they were.

“…I’m sorry too,” he was astonished to hear Seunghyun murmur above him, his hand stroking Jiyong’s hair to distract him from the insistent pleasure building between his legs. Jiyong shook his head, lips pursed, ‘cos what reason did his Tabi have to be sorry? “Shouldn’t’ve run out on you. Should’ve _listened_ to you, to what you were trying to do,” Seunghyun continued, now picking up the pace. Through his moan Jiyong heard him add: “You were never gonna leave me…right?”

“ _Never_ …ohh!” As if he’d even dream of it!

“I know that now.” The smaller man cried out as Seunghyun hit the nerves inside him that made rational thought pack up and leave, but not before he had time to grab him and drag him down to kiss him all over his face. Seunghyun’s lips caught his, hand curling around his erection to add to the delight, and Jiyong knew as Seunghyun took his breath into his own lungs that there would never be anyone with whom his body was more in sync, or with whose soul he wanted more to be in harmony. The older man kissed him one last time, then straightened up, grasping his thighs for leverage; the change in angle and speed was enough to screw Jiyong into oblivion and he knew it wouldn’t be much longer – there’d be time for that later, again and again if only Seunghyun would let him, as much as their bodies could bear. He clung to Seunghyun’s wrists as sunlight burst in his vision, and in a display of perfect timing he felt Seunghyun coming too, more white heat inside him.

Seunghyun didn’t collapse onto him afterward but reclaimed the position beside him, careful not to crush him, their bodies still entwined even after he pulled out. Jiyong stroked his beloved’s damp shoulder, traced the lines of his chest; he’d forgotten all about his skinned palms. He tucked his face into his neck and felt Seunghyun kiss the top of his head. The sounds of the world began to come to him again, not frantic and tumultuous like they’d been on the dock but summery, alive: the calls of gulls and tourists and sailors, mountain folk music from a gramophone down the hall.

“Smoke?” said Seunghyun eventually.

“Nah.” Jiyong was too content to need anything just now. Seunghyun didn’t seem inclined to move anyway. They lay there a while and chatted quietly about non-weighty matters: Jiyong’s trip on the Golden State and Seunghyun’s own route on the Chief, meeting Lily in the dining car; Jiyong’s family, the kindness of Seunghyun’s dad. Jiyong was happy to skirt around the issues that really needed talking about, but before too much longer he had to get up to take a piss and wash himself off. He put Seunghyun’s shirt on, not ‘cos he was cold but because he wanted to smell it on him. It was too big and fell to cover the old tattoos on his thighs but Seunghyun seemed to like the look of it. The older man didn’t bother with clothes, just wrapped the bedsheet around himself like a toga. When he returned to the bed Seunghyun was reclining against the wobbly headboard. He beckoned Jiyong back into his arms. The smaller man returned eagerly, yet as he leaned against Seunghyun’s side he sensed the mood had shifted. Seunghyun knew it too.

“You want to start?” he asked Jiyong – not combative, just sober. “Or shall I?”

“You first.” Seunghyun had far more grievances and this time Jiyong wouldn’t dismiss them.

“Okay…” The older man kissed him first, then took his hand. “I guess…why’d you take so long to come for me?” Jiyong had figured that was where he’d begin: he must’ve asked himself that question with more and more heartache every day Jiyong didn’t arrive. The younger man knew it ‘cos he’d felt the same.

“A few reasons,” he said, “and I know none of ‘em are good enough.” Seunghyun patted his hand. “First, I couldn’t think where you’d go: Chicago was a possibility, obviously, but I thought maybe Peru or someplace even further; then again, you could’ve been close, waiting to teach me a lesson.”

“Huh.”

“I’m flat broke after I bought my parents’ place and made my way out here. I mean, look at this.” Jiyong picked up his money pouch by its cord and showed him how thin and sad it was. “If I got it wrong – and I thought I had, right up ‘til the moment you found me! – I’d have no more options.”

“…I forgot,” admitted Seunghyun. “I should’ve left you some cash when I went, for emergencies.”

“I don’t think anyone’s _that_ noble,” said Jiyong gently, and squeezed his hand. “But apart from that, everyone swore blind you’d come back on your own. I was dumb to believe them,” he added at Seunghyun’s expression. “But I did: my ego again, Timtam said. When you left the photographs of me in the compartment…” He swallowed, recalling the sensations that’d been prompted when he’d found them. “I thought it meant you’d be back for them. And for me.” God, it sounded arrogant when he said it out loud, but Seunghyun was nodding.

“I was going to,” he said. He looked ambivalent about it, like the admission made him look weak, but it melted Jiyong’s heart to hear it. He gave the bigger man a hesitant smile. “I went right back to Chicago, stayed with my folks,” Seunghyun told him. Jiyong kept quiet about his mother’s version of events. “I thought it’d only be for a few days, that _you’d_ be sure to come for _me_. That you’d know where I would run.” Seunghyun’s handsome face turned dark. “But it turned into a week, then two, and I started to believe you wouldn’t – that you weren’t even going to _try_ and make amends.” Jiyong pressed his hand again – crossed wires and goddamn stupid misunderstandings! It had almost cost them this moment. “So,” went on Seunghyun, “I changed my plan. I realized you either didn’t need me enough to come, or that…that maybe you’d left with _him_.” Jiyong didn’t need to ask who he was referring to. “Everyone was talking about him going, about what it meant. Then when the matinée began and you weren’t there…” He swallowed.

“I wouldn’t,” Jiyong promised him solemnly. “I swear, that didn’t cross my mind – not once.” It was true, too: he’d never for a minute considered abandoning Seunghyun, not even before he’d known about Mr. Insull’s troubles and thought he was still a billionaire.

“He asked you, though – right?” Seunghyun was looking straight at him.

“…Once,” said Jiyong. “The last time I saw him: he said he’d like to take me to Europe.” He could see Seunghyun gritting his teeth. “But even he knew I’d say no,” Jiyong consoled him. Hadn’t Mr. Insull constantly told him their time together would be short? “And I’m _here_ , Tabi – not there. And he’s gone.”

“I saw in the paper,” was all Seunghyun said, though there was a cast to his face that said he’d love to gloat about it and was only refraining out of delicacy. “But I couldn’t be sure and right then I was thinking the worst of you.”

“I get it,” Jiyong assured him sadly.

“That’s why I decided I had to make my own plans.” This seemed the natural time for Jiyong to ask what he’d been bursting to find out.

“But why the hell were you going to _Korea_?” Seunghyun leaned back as if he wanted outta the smaller man’s eye-line but Jiyong turned to stare at him. “I thought your mom was just parroting your excuses when she said it! But then your dad told me you’d booked passage, and I…” He bit his lip. “This was _it_ , wasn’t it: you’d truly given up on me.” Jiyong had told him to do exactly that, long ago in the House when he’d thought his Tabi could have no real future with him; he was so thankful now that he hadn’t been able to go through with it! Seunghyun closed his eyes. “But why go all the way to Korea?!”

“…I thought it’d help me forget.” The older man opened them again. “But I was wrong – I could be half the world away and I wouldn’t forget you. That’s partly why I couldn’t get on that ship.”

“Then I’m glad,” Jiyong told him honestly, and when he leaned over and kissed him Seunghyun responded. “It was bad enough when I thought you’d gotten another position at the University.”

“That’s the ‘job’ you were talking about?” Seunghyun looked puzzled. “Whatever made you think it?”

“You left a letter behind.” Jiyong coughed. “I was looking for clues so…I read it. I didn’t understand it but it was from your old professor; it said something about a project.” Seunghyun’s expression cleared. “And you’ve been missing your brainwork, I know,” Jiyong continued in a rush. “Talking to Daesung and ordering those science magazines, the experiments with that assistant of yours…” Those were the only times he’d ever been concerned about keeping Seunghyun’s devotion, before…before the last time. How petty those worries seemed now! “I just figured you’d jump at a college job after everything that happened.”

“Well.” Seunghyun sat back up and absently adjusted his makeshift robe. “I did visit the Chemistry department a few times when I was back. And I _have_ been corresponding with Professor Wyeman, he’s been telling me about his new research. It was an interesting project and I was going crazy missing you, so we got talking again while I was in Chicago. But he never offered me a University position. I don’t think they’d ever hire me back, not after what happened with Watkins!” He huffed. “Institutions have long memories.”

“Oh!”

“Now listen, Jiyong.” Seunghyun took both his hands, and in their grip Jiyong sensed the old flame of enthusiasm that always kindled in his lover when he talked about science. “Those weren’t wasted visits, _or_ wasted letters: I learned a bunch. I even gave him some ideas.”

“I bet,” said Jiyong loyally.

“But more than that: a month or two ago he _did_ introduce me to a job.” Jiyong blinked. “Not an academic post,” Seunghyun went on, his tone excited but somehow wary too. “Research in a manufacturing lab, like the one I was gonna take in Charleston. Remember?”

“Course.” Jiyong was beginning to feel cautious as well.

“Only…you’ll never believe it. This job really _is_ in Korea!”

“ _What_?”

“That’s why he thought of me first,” explained Seunghyun, “as soon as he heard of it from some visiting professor at a conference. It’s a Japanese chemical company outside Seoul and he thought I’d be perfect – he thought it was _hilarious_ that I’ve been working in a circus.”

“…Is it hilarious?” asked Jiyong weakly.

“Of course not. But this…this is the kind of job I trained for years to get.” Seunghyun gave him a significant look. “And I thought it’d be a fresh start.” He paused. “…I still do.” Jiyong sat there mute for a minute, because what else could he mean?

“You’re not saying…you still wanna _go_?” Seunghyun took a deep breath through his nostrils and came right out with it.

“Yeah. I do. Only now I want _us_ to go. That’s what I wanted all along, that’s why I sent them my résumé. I know you were wondering about it, that day at the post office…”

“…Is _that_ why you asked if I was tired of circus life?!” exclaimed Jiyong, incredulous.

“Yes. And I know you said you weren’t, but-”

“Are you crazy?!”

“Why? We were considering it, weren’t we? After Capone? Plus Sells-Floto hasn’t been doing so good and I knew if…if _he_ finally got arrested… Well.” He paused. “But it’s more than that, Jiyong: we’ve been through so much _mess_. If we’re gonna make this work I’d like a new start, in a new place: just you and me, no old associations, no sore memories.”

“But…but…” Jiyong fumbled for something sensible to say. After some mental scrabbling his brain threw up a card. “But we _can_ have that, and right here!” Seunghyun frowned, not understanding. “I didn’t tell you, Tabi, but you’re _right_ : Sells-Floto’s finally folding. Come September it’s done.” He was still bitterly sad, even grieving over the fact, and he’d thought Seunghyun would be too when he told him. But perhaps he’d been wrong! Seunghyun’s grip on his hands transferred itself to his upper arms: he gave the smaller man an excited little shake.

“All the more reason for us to go! This is _perfect_.” His face was shining.

“I just got a new manager!” Jiyong reminded him.

“So? You ran out on one already. Or if you really want to stick with it you can get him to find you a connection in Korean show business. It must have _some_.”

“Of course I wanna stick with it!!” Jiyong hushed his lover’s next crazy comment and went on. “And we _can_ have a fresh start and not give up the careers we’ve spent six damn years building! That’s what I was trying to tell you: Terrell’s been made manager of the new circus for the World’s Fair, and he’s offered us jobs if we go back and finish the season!” Seunghyun opened his mouth. “Think about it, Tabi: we can do what we love and make money _and_ be close to our families.” Christ, Seunghyun had spent years pining when his parents were just a few States away! How the hell would he cope if he really did what they thought he was doing and took a job in Occupied Korea? And Jiyong’s family, too! He wanted to know his sisters _better_ , not run off to the other side of the world.

“The World’s Fair’s in Chicago,” said Seunghyun immediately. “Not exactly a ‘fresh’ start.” He had his stubborn face on. Jiyong couldn’t believe it!

“But we can do what we love!” he repeated, in case the older man hadn’t heard it.

“What _you_ love,” Seunghyun corrected him. Jiyong’s jaw dropped. “What I _like_. I was born to use my mind, Jiyong: it was my dream to be a researcher – and then it was my dream to be with you, so I gave up the first gladly. But if we go to Seoul together I can have both!” Jiyong shut his mouth, ‘cos that was true, wasn’t it: Seunghyun had given up everything to be with him, regardless of the fact that Jiyong hadn’t actually _asked_ him to. He’d thought the ensuing years had given enough back to the bigger man to fulfill him; but he couldn’t deny their entire lives in the Circus and even the city theaters had been on Jiyong’s terms – and it was _his_ fault they’d had to leave Chicago in the first place. Even so, he thought with a thrill of terror – Korea!

“You’re right,” he said. “But what would I do there? Look at me, I’m not gunna be given any respectable job – and I doubt there’s a thriving Big Top scene among the natives, not under Japanese rule.” Quite apart from the likely attitude in Seoul towards two men living together in sin: a country full of ‘Christians’ like his father sounded frankly terrifying. Seunghyun seemed to have forgotten that one of the blessings of the Circus was its tolerance.

“I’d support you,” Seunghyun told him staunchly. “I always said so! And I’m not saying we have to spend our entire lives there. Just a few years, to start.”

“I’m not gunna be your housewife,” stated Jiyong. A few _years_! “Or worse, your mistress! I wanna work.” How was he to support his own family like that? A researcher couldn’t earn _that_ much even in a country not in the throes of a Depression, not enough to support Jiyong and his parents and Dami and the baby. Beyond himself, beyond the Circus, beyond anything, _that_ was what he’d always fought to do. “And besides…” Seunghyun’s expression turned knowing.

“…Ah. You mean you want the crowd.”

“That too.” He wasn’t ashamed of it: Mr. Insull had been right about that, he thrived on the admiration of others too much to give it up entirely. Seunghyun didn’t seem to have an answer to that. All he said was:

“Don’t you think you at least owe it to me – and _yourself_ – to try?” He sighed. “Do you think I’ve got no pride at all, Jiyong? That I’d just…go back to the way we were without _any_ changes?”

They sat in silence for some time. Jiyong was certain – if Seunghyun was thinking the same thing he was – that they both wanted to make the other happy, and at the same time each thought the other was being goddamn mulish. The only difference was that Tabi was _insane_. How could he ask him to up sticks and move their lives to Korea? There was no promise of success there and much danger to living in an occupied territory; whereas with Terrell they were certain of a good place, both of them, one in which Jiyong could fulfil his inarguable responsibilities. Then again, perhaps Seunghyun was thinking _he_ was equally mad, to be so attached to a teetering industry in the throes of America’s worst economic crisis.

“…I know,” said Seunghyun eventually, in response to the look on his face. “It’s a hard choice, darling: both options have their flaws, I admit it. But we have to decide, together: go back to the Circus – your dream – or start a new life that could be _ours_.” That wasn’t helping but Jiyong nodded ‘cos he was right, at least about having to choose. They couldn’t dawdle over it, either: Terrell wanted him back on the train. And even more pressing:

“I didn’t bring my passport,” he ventured. “And I have no money to go back and get it. Certainly not enough for a liner to Korea – not even to Hawaii. I’d hafta hitch just to get back to the Circus.”

“I’ll pay for you. I’ve not had to spend a lot.” Seunghyun’s savings pouch was indeed full. Jiyong sighed: that didn’t address the fundamental problem, and in his opinion it weighted the argument rather heavily on Seunghyun’s side, morally speaking. He was only too aware that he who held the purse strings held power.

They appeared to have reached another impasse. Jiyong leaned back, his arm still held loosely in Seunghyun’s grasp, and thought as hard as he’d ever thought in his life. He’d said he’d do anything to make up for how he had treated Seunghyun – but he hadn’t expected to be asked _this_. The older man was frowning to himself, a line between his full eyebrows that showed he was also deep in thought. There had to be some solution. They’d found each other, hadn’t they? They oughta be able to do _anything_. After a bit Seunghyun quit playing absently with Jiyong’s fingers and clambered off the bed.

“You’ve got face cream, I take it?” he enquired. “All that scraped skin’s gonna dry up and crack.” Jiyong supposed he wanted to focus on a more manageable problem for a minute.

“In my backpack.” Emergency or no, he didn’t go anywhere without his basic beauty aids. Seunghyun opened the canvas bag and dug around while Jiyong watched the line of his back and shoulders with appreciation: he wouldn’t take the sight of him for granted ever again. The bigger man was exclaiming at the number of jars and tubes he’d found necessary to bring with him. Then:

“What’s this?” asked Seunghyun, and held up the string-wrapped parcel. Jiyong froze; he hadn’t thought about the box since he’d arrived in California. But he was to be _honest_ with Seunghyun from now on.

“I don’t know.”

“Huh?” Seunghyun peered at it.

“It was left with my sister for me,” Jiyong told him. He slid off the bed and joined him. “…I think it’s from Mr. Insull.” At the sound of the name Seunghyun’s hand tightened around the box so hard his fingers turned white. Jiyong met his eyes and without reticence covered the hand with his own ‘til Seunghyun’s grip eased. “I dunno what it is,” he repeated in a soothing tone. “And I didn’t ask for it. I actually forgot all about it, I just shoved it in there on the way to find you. To find _you_ , Tabi; not him.” Seunghyun didn’t reply. “You wanna open it?” Jiyong offered.

“No. You: it’s your mail.”

“But you don’t mind seeing, right?” Seunghyun paused but shook his head, seeming slightly relieved that Jiyong was willing for him to look. Jiyong located his pants on the floor and retrieved his pocket knife: if he tried to untie all that intricate string his Tabi would probably go nuts. So he cut it and laid it carefully on the room’s single chair, preserving the lattice of knots. Seunghyun watched him wordlessly. Jiyong went over to the window and opened the blind, letting hot afternoon light stream in, then unwrapped the brown paper. Inside was a beautifully made but plainly decorated wooden box, French polished all over and with no lock but a firm catch. He took a moment to prepare himself, but opened it before Seunghyun could get impatient enough to be angry. On top was a little envelope, and underneath that an object wrapped in oiled cloth and ribbon. His name was on the envelope in the small, exquisitely neat handwriting he would forever associate with Mr. Insull. Of course it was from him. Jiyong flicked an anxious glance at Seunghyun.

“Go ahead.” Seunghyun retreated to the bed and sat down with a thump. “Read it. It’s okay.” With apprehension but also an anticipation he couldn’t deny Jiyong quickly opened the envelope and turned the thick, smooth paper to the window. He read in silence; it didn’t take long.

 

> _My very dear boy_ , ran the handwritten letter.
> 
> _This is probably the last time I shall be able to write to you without my mail being tampered with – between federal agents and journalists and the new Interpol I do not anticipate having a lot of privacy as I try to find a place to settle overseas. I am rather tired from the journey thus far, but quite well. I hope you are well and happy. No matter what the fortunes of Sells-Floto, I know you will make a success of yourself: you should be proud._
> 
> _Please find enclosed a small memento – I don’t wish any lawman or creditor to take it. I had it made for myself some years ago but in the end decided it was too dazzling for me to wear personally. I think it will suit you better: you dazzled me constantly. Wear it if you wish, sell it if it will make things easier. As you now know, there may be little I can do in the future to help you. But write to me, and please don’t worry._
> 
> _I wish you well._
> 
> _With as much love as you care to take, I remain sincerely yours,_
> 
> _Samuel Insull_

 

Jiyong held the letter close to his face for a moment: it smelled of the past, and all the associations that conjured up. He placed it down in the windowsill and stared outside at the blue sky and white buildings, trying to focus his eyes on something else; he was unable to hide his emotions upon reading those fond words, but thought maybe he oughta try. Seunghyun wasn’t fooled for a minute.

“It’s from him, isn’t it. No-one else makes you look like that.”

“…He must’ve sent it from Canada,” said Jiyong; he hoped his old patron’s onward journey was going smoothly, but was very glad just now to be able to remind Seunghyun of how far away he was; even if it pained him to say it. “He’ll be almost to Paris by now.” Seunghyun gave a satisfied grunt at the idea of Mr. Insull being such a vast ocean away. “D’you wanna read it?” offered Jiyong. It was a deeply personal letter but he knew it was better to show him: they had to rebuild the trust between them, and keeping it to himself would only hurt that process.

“Can I?”

“…Sure.” Jiyong picked up the note and passed it to him; he hoped Seunghyun wouldn’t have one of his tantrums and damage it. Seunghyun read it far more quickly, not lingering on the complimentary phrases; his jaw tightened at the endearments, but all he did was let out a forbearing sigh and set the letter on top of Jiyong’s bag.

“Still no apology, I see,” he said, looking like he was convinced Mr. Insull was still intent on controlling Jiyong from a whole ‘nother continent.

“To me?” Jiyong blinked. “Oh, no. He’s never been sorry for anything in his life; only maybe for having to leave.” Seunghyun grunted. “But neither am I,” the smaller man told him. “All the things he did to me – and for me – they brought me to _you_. How could I regret any of them?” Seunghyun closed his eyes for a long instant, his throat working as he wrestled with that fact. Then he nodded.

“What’s he talking about?” he asked once he was calm again.

“Hm?”

“This ‘small memento’ that’s so fitting for you to dazzle in.”

“Oh.” Jiyong had been so caught by the letter and its kindness that he’d forgotten about the other object in the box. Now he removed it and turned it round in his hands; it was quite heavy, and tied with a scarlet ribbon the color of his silks. Under his lover’s curious gaze he unwrapped it; then he sat down heavily in the window, hand to his mouth. Seunghyun got up hurriedly and strode to his side.

“…Christ,” said Seunghyun in a hushed voice. They both stared at the gift in Jiyong’s trembling hand. What a gift it was: a man’s platinum wristwatch in a whimsically old-fashioned Art Nouveau style. Its face bore the signature ‘Piaget’, and every part of the intricate design, from casing to strap, was made up of diamonds; the jewels crusted its surface, mostly white with a few green stones to set off the naturalistic motif. It was the most stunning piece of art Jiyong had ever seen. He held it up and the diamonds caught the sunlight in a blaze.

“My God…” was all he could say.

“At least,” said Seunghyun, also sounding rather overwhelmed, “you won’t have to worry about paying your way.” Jiyong let out a short giggle that sounded hysterical. “And he’s not wrong: you’re the only person on Earth who shines as bright.”

Jiyong took another look at the beautiful watch, thought of the man who’d cared enough for him during his own troubles to send it, and burst into tears. It wasn’t wicked, was it, to cry over such a spectacular sight and kindly gesture in front of his lover? Perhaps it was, but he couldn’t help it. Seunghyun was rubbing his back, murmuring to him. It took a while to pull himself together, but he wiped his eyes and handed the watch to Seunghyun to examine. The older man held it gingerly – he was accustomed to handling precious stones, he had several round his neck right now; still, Jiyong bet he’d never seen anything like this. It was as if every jewel they’d robbed McGurn of all those years ago had gone into making it. Jiyong was sure they couldn’t be the same diamonds – this watch looked older, and Capone had almost certainly made Mr. Insull return the stolen stones again after Jiyong and Seunghyun had gone on the lam. But it seemed somehow _fitting_ , that an equivalent of the great fortune that’d once been used to buy Jiyong now lay here in his hands – as if Mr. Insull had at last given him back to himself.

“…You won’t be angry?” asked Jiyong, sniffing. “If I keep it…” Seunghyun gave the watch a highly ambiguous glare but squeezed Jiyong’s shoulders.

“I’d be furious if you didn’t – it’s the least you deserve from him,” he said after much thought. He huffed out a breath. “I’ve got to hand it to the old sod, he knows how to make an exit!” Jiyong gave a tearful laugh and clutched at Seunghyun’s hand, drew him down and kissed him passionately. Seunghyun cupped his jaw with great reverence and kissed him back. The younger man breathed into him and gradually calmed; he felt that with this restoration of his finances – dubiously pleasing to his beloved though it was – a measure of equality had been restored between them. He’d be strong enough soon, he decided: they’d both be strong enough to put their cases rationally and decide on the next step in their lives: Chicago or Korea, circus or laboratory, fame and lights or the march of progress.

“I’ll be ready soon,” he promised Seunghyun, and leaned into his embrace.

“Well,” said Seunghyun quietly, nodding at the jewel-encrusted gift of the man who had almost come between them, “I guess we’ve got time to think about it, and decide – together.” Jiyong nodded, thumb caressing the watch’s beautiful face; just one of the smallest diamonds would probably persuade Terrell to hire him for the new show even if he didn’t make the Sells-Floto end of season – or could take him thousands of miles across the sea. Whether he sold it or not it at least gave him the chance to be his own man, in an equal partnership with the person he loved, and he was more grateful for that than he could say.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and set it tenderly around his wrist. He smiled up at Seunghyun and took his hand. “Now we’ve got time.”

 

**END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's title song is _'Body and Soul'_ written in 1930 by Johnny Green and Edward Heyman.
> 
> And there you have it! Had to finish in the time-honoured Jiyong way: fuck first, talk later XD
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading right up to the last chapter, I seriously appreciate it ^o^  
>  If you enjoyed the fic I'd love for you to let me know what you thought, and what you might want from the boys in the future: what should they decide? Where should they go?
> 
> Upcoming fic info: Gonna take a week off, then there'll be a modern-day AU smut-fluff oneshot.  
>  Next up after that will be a small(ish) prequel to Bombshell (which is gonna be kind of a niche fic, but if you're interested in how Jiyong got to be the way he is and how he ended up first meeting Seunghyun at the beginning of Bombshell you might find it interesting!).  
>  After _that_...it's back into research and writing for one more sequel. So there'll probably be a gap for a while (I think this fic might be loooong, ahaha). But I'll still post fanart regularly on my Tumblr and IG.
> 
> Once again...honestly, thank you \\(^o^)/


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